One of Destiny
by Hinode36
Summary: Sequel to Slave to Fate. Two weeks after Alodie took up training with the Greybeards, the wheels of fate begin to turn upon the last Dragonborn as he finds a long dead organization and begins to unravel the mystery of the dragons. His past continues to haunt him and he eventually returns to Riften. He meets up with Mjoll once again though on different terms...
1. Prologue

**One of Destiny**

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**Author's Note: This is a sequel to **_**Slave to Fate**_**, so, if you haven't read that then you will most likely be confused. For my returning readers, enjoy! I won't promise fast updates but I'll give you at least this while I work on it. This book takes place about two weeks after the last so right about the beginnings of winter.**

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**Prologue**

Normally, the stillness of the air would have welcomed her, however, today she wished it away along with the bitterness of the past mission that was still left in her mouth.

Quill sighed deeply, the dark mist around her rising. She lowered her dark hood as she pulled her horse around the cliff, disappearing into darkness. Below was a pond filled with both water and blood as a sign to stay away from what laid beyond. Ancient skeletons littered the edges of the pond, reaching out from the ground as if they had been buried alive. Although the pond interested her, what caught her attention the most was the dark door before her, a beacon among the mists. A dark handprint along with a skull marked the entrance.

She placed her furry hand onto the marking, waiting for the voice to appear.

"_What is the music of life_?" it asked.

"Silence, my brother," she muttered. The door opened slowly, a red glow and a flight of stairs becoming apparent. She took a torch from the side of the hall as the door behind her shut, granting her darkness once again.

As she made it to the commons of the Dark Brotherhood hideout, she immediately swallowed, prepared for anything. She looked up and spotted Astridwith a face angry enough to spur a Deadra. She had dark rings underneath her eyes, probably from a loss of sleep, and was shaking her head as Quill entered – not because of her though.

"Come, we seem to be having a bit of a problem," she said. Quill narrowed her yellow eyes, wondering what else could have happened.

Astrid knew that Quill, the blood thirsty and mysterious Khajiit, wasn't one for words, so she headed towards the main hall expecting Quill to follow. The Khajiit did in fact follow closely behind, pulling off her hood in order to see the main room clearly.

The Dark Brotherhood hideout was more of a cave then anything, as advertised by the front. She had returned from her last mission helping some alchemist named Muiri get her revenge on some pretty boy bandit and a rich family in Windhelm. Quill didn't care for the details however she barely got out of the Dwemer ruin alive.

And, before even that, the Brotherhood had a little…_visitor._

"I want to know what he is up to, Quill," Astrid started, walking towards an ancient Nordic wall. "He acts like a mad man for a reason no doubt. Whispering to that coffin hours on end… He hasn't left the room since he came here. And then when he does he's dancing around the place praising the Night Mother like a banshee." Quill gave her a look with her yellow eyes, considering the leader of the Brotherhood coldly.

"What do you want me to do about it?" she asked. What, did Astrid want her to humor the abnormal jester? Kill him? He wasn't doing anything wrong except prancing around like a normal fool. Though, she had a feeling that the "mother" in the coffin was more than just a dead body.

Astrid huffed. "I want you to spy on him. Go into that coffin of his, he never opens it, and see what's in there." She turned around to face the Khajiit. "He'll never expect you to be there if you already have been gone for a few weeks."

What she said was true and the job sounded easy. So, she nodded once, reluctant to do any of this for Astrid who she wasn't really keen on helping. But, she was curious about the jester.

She walked the halls until she got to the top of the hideout, finding the door wide open. She heard scurrying from beyond the room, probably the jester eating a meal or something. She walked slowly like a shadow, peering towards the weird man. He was there concentrating on a journal of some sort, the quill waggling in the air. He was whispering to himself in a fever, dipping the pen in ink before wildly scratching out something.

"Not him… not her…"

She stepped away from the door frame and headed towards another room. The coffin was laid against the wall as if it was an alter with candles laid among it, each flickering delicately. She paused before beginning to mess with the coffin's lock, easily sliding the chambers to release. Inside was indeed a dead women… she had doubted that whatever was in there was indeed a corpse. The thing seemed to eye her with hollow eyes and once she stepped closer the doors snapped shut, trapping her.

"Gods…" she whispered but remained silent, peering up at the skull of the dead woman. The Night Mother. The thing smelled disgusting mixed with lint and dust. She struggled not to cough and sneeze once she heard footsteps echoing down the hall.

She heard a laughter then a sputter. "Are we alone?" she heard him ask. The jester giggled again. "Yes…yes…_alone_. Sweet solitude. Everything is going according to plan." His voice was high and squeaky and annoyed her to death. He was defiantly mad however at the mention of a plan, her ears perked up.

"The others… I've spoken to them... and they're coming around, I know it. The wizard… the Argonian… _and_ the un-child." He pursed his lips into a smacking sound. "What about you… have you… spoken to anyone? No… no of course not. _I _ do the talking, the stalking, the seeing _and_ the saying!" The jester's voice rose in volume. "And what do you do, hmm? _Nothing_!" He paused checking himself as he lowered his voice. "Uh… not that I'm angry! No, never, heh. Cicero understands _and_ obeys. But… you'll talk when you're ready, won't you… won't you?…sweet Night Mother."

Quill struggled to move slightly, her legs beginning to cramp up from the small space she was forced into. She felt different however… she had closed her eyes due to the darkness, however her eyelids revealed a slight light from beyond. She opened them and saw the corpse she was hugging glowing as if from Oblivion.

"_Poor Cicero…"_ began a mysterious voice from beyond. "_Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice for he is not the listener."_ Quill's eyes widened once she realized it was the corpse talking to her and flinched away, eyes drawing upon the dead woman.

"Oh, but how can I defend you? How will I exert your will if you will not speak to anyone? _To anyone!"_

"_Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one."_ Quill tilted her head before she realized what she meant. The Listener was _her. _This crazed jester was speaking the truth and this was indeed the Night Mother from the old Brotherhood. She wondered, what did this thing want from her?

The corpse seemed to know what she was thinking. "_Yes, you. You who shares my iron tomb and warms my ancient bones. I give you this task—journey to Volunruud and speak with Amaund Motierre." _The Night Mother dimmed. "_Someone you are... already _very_ well acquainted with."_

Motierre. He summoned the Night Mother to perform a task that no doubt will have something to do with the Emperor. She was suspicious, had he known all along? What was he up to? And why was he in Skyrim?

"Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is _sorry_ sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard… but I can't find the Listener." The light returned as the body spoke.

"_Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'_"

Suddenly, the coffin opened, light spilling out in waves. Her eyes took time to adjust as she turned around to see the jester, Cicero—eyes and mouth opened wide as he saw a cat crawling near his mother. She remained silent as Cicero screamed.

"Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the Night Mother! Defiler!" The ruckus caused some people from the next room to peer in due to her leaving the door open. The jester continued to shout at her. "What are you doing here!"

Quill stepped out the coffin, brushing off spider webs while showing her teeth to the fool. "Apparently your Night Mother spoke to me," she said with narrowed eyes.

The fool crossed his arms. "…spoke to you?" he scoffed. "Lies! The Night Mother only speaks to the Listener! And there is…no…_Listener_!"

She sniffed once coming closer to the fool, scaring him with her bright eyes. She almost seemed to whisper to him as she bent over, glaring at him with daggers. "Darkness rises when silence dies," was all she said.

Cicero's face softened after hearing those words, relaxing his shoulders as he took a step back. "She…said that… to you? 'Darkness rises when silence dies…'"

Gradually, his mouth upturned into a large yet creepy smile. He began laughing joyfully, clapping his hands then dancing about the room. "Then… it's true! She's back! Our lady is _back_!" He noticed the people piling up near the door and addressed them. "She has chosen a Listener! A Listener!" He began to cackling from either madness or happiness—Quill wasn't exactly sure. "All hail the Night Mother! All hail the Listener!" He pushed aside the many assassins who gave her confused looks as the jester announced to the world.

"The Khajiit's the Listener! She's the Listener! All hail the Night Mother!"

And something told her that all would change in her life as an assassin.


	2. Proving Honor

**One of Destiny****  
****Part I: Diplomatic Immunity**

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"_It is in our best interest that you learn how to use your gift and fulfill your destiny_."  
Arngeir

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**Chapter One: Proving Honor **

The Hall of the Companions was a buzz; the warriors chatted drunkenly with friends or mourned dead ones in the ancient hall of the five hundred. Most simply found the pleasure of simply living the next day as an excuse to drink. Suddenly, the doors burst open from the cold and before the hall was an angry wizard, glaring.

"Mjoll, what was the point in all of this anyway?" he started as he walked forward. The Companions returned to business after the commotion as a tall warrior made her way inside.

"We can't just expect everything to be handed to us on a silver platter," she said, hefting up an old sword. "And besides, I didn't see you really doing much except creating even more of a mess inside that bandit camp."

Marcurio crossed his arms. "I killed most of them."

"Along with me."

Marcurio was about to rebuke but was interrupted by a stony eyed Nord making his way towards the both of them. Vilkas gave Mjoll one look before eyeing the sword. He smirked slightly, taking the blade from Mjoll who gave him a wary eye.

"Good work… I'm surprised you even went in there at all," he stated coldly, his eyes wavering towards Marcurio. "There is something that needs doing."

Mjoll raised her eyebrows, glancing towards Marcurio who shrugged.

"What?" she said rudely. After all, why would she be nice? Vilkas always treated her as if she was a newborn cub who couldn't even see straight.

Vilkas glared at the mage while he simply stared back innocently, tilting his head. Mjoll sort of got the message and glanced at Marcurio. She made a motion towards Marcurio, bidding him away however he didn't move. _The stupid mercenary_, she thought.

"Why are you guys looking at me like that?" he asked, sweating a bit from the pressure of two pairs of warrior's eyes.

Mjoll sighed. "Go. Away."

Marcurio huffed once, his hand flying into the air. He shook his head as he turned, stomping towards the drunken laughter.

"You could've just said so…"

Mjoll ignored his last comment as Vilkas led her down below towards the barracks.

There were barely any people below and rarely did anyone sleep here normally anyway until they passed out from a drunken stupor.

This night was different, however.

Vilkas strangely led her to Kodlak's room which was wide open. Inside stood Farkas who gave her a patient yet worried stare and Kodlak who was busy at his desk. Both were silent at her arrival as Vilkas brought her inside, closing the doors.

"I brought her as asked. You better know what you're doing," he said, glaring at her. She didn't make hints of reaction to his words.

Kodlak looked up at her and smiled. "Good, good. I was wondering when you would return. We have been waiting." Kodlak pushed his chair back, standing and facing her. "I believe it is time you were truly made a member of the Companions. You have indeed proved your worth but we need something… more from you. And I think you will find more answers to your questions if you do." He cleared his throat. "I want you to go to Dustman's Cairn – an ancient Nordic burial site that has something special. You have heard of Ysgramor's axe, Wuuthrad, I assume?"

Mjoll nodded once. "The elf slayer. I've heard the children's stories."

"You know it's not just a story," he said. He smiled briefly before continuing. "I want you to find a fragment of this axe—all artifacts from the companions are of great importance to us. Farkas will lead you there and be your Shield-Brother." The buff Nord behind him nodded once, however she was still puzzled.

"Why me? Why am I doing something so… important?"

"Because one of your elders told you to, whelp, that's why," Vilkas chimed in.

Kodlak shook his head. "No, no. A reasonable question. And you know more than anyone else, Vilkas, that no one rules anyone in the Companions." He glanced towards Mjoll. "You will see. When the time comes, you will understand."

And that was that. Mjoll left the room with Farkas, confused. She looked up at the strong yet silent Nord and shrugged though he made no real response. He walked forward and left, telling her to meet him in the front after she's packed some supplies. The night was waxing and Marcurio was drunk as always. She found him pacing about the room as if looking for something and before she could say anything, he ducked underneath the table where a few women sat discussing their outings.

"Found it! …my ring. Can't mishplace that! Nope, hic." He hit his head from beneath the table once he realized Mjoll stood behind him. The servant girls glared at him before standing walking away from the perverted wizard. He laughed. "You sphinx you… trying to sneak by me eh'?"

"I'm not sneaking by anyone, moron. I'm leaving. I might be back in the morning."

At that, Marcurio sat up. "Where to? Death?" He laughed mightily at that, though what he said was not that funny. She sighed deeply. She didn't even know what the point was, he would probably forget about this in the morning anyway.

Before she could say anything, he sat down and began to drink even more, burping slightly the laughing. "Why are we still hangin' around here Mjoll? We need to find Aerin yah know!"

"We asked everyone here about the Silver Hand. Even the Harbinger."

"And he didn't say a damn thing, did he?"

That was true. She had asked about the Silver Hand and told of what happened to Aerin after her first mission returning from the mountain, however, he said nothing. Not a word. Only a sad stare as if he was considering something. She was worried. Were the Companions allied to the Silver Hand? Did they want to get rid of her?

She doubted that.

She left Marcurio behind who was still giggling in drink and exited outside to the midnight air. There stood Farkas who raised his eyebrows at her.

"You ready?" he asked.

She smirked. "Always."

* * *

It had been awhile since he had set foot inside the Rift.

He sat upon his horse, passing a few soldiers who gave him nasty stares. He looked away sharply, giving Lydia a small nod to hurry along. He wanted to get there quickly—he felt as if he had wasted time.

Alodie had left the mountain after spending a week above the tops of the world. The Greybeards were reclusive and taught him very little in the ways of the Voice. Hardly enough to overpower Alduin but he hadn't really expected that. He knew that they were afraid of him.

He had asked just two days ago. "Why won't you teach me more?"

The only speaking Greybeard Arngeir frowned when he said that, placing down one of the many books that littered the halls of High Hrothgar. He gave Alodie a patient stare.

"More?" he began, puzzled. "Apparently, you do not know as much as we thought you did. The Way of the Voice is not a tool of war that can be simply taught and used against your enemies. Shouting is not a spell that you can cast nor is it that easy to use."

Alodie found the Greybeard's patronizing voice annoying at times but he never really blamed him, being stuck up here in that drab place every day for eternity. He shook his head slowly, trying to understand what the Greybeard was saying but found it difficult to.

"Well, what if I don't practice your…'faith.' I know myself enough not to go on a rampage with this power. I just…don't understand why you can't trust me," he said. It was true, they never really trusted him with the Voice. At all. He knew a few shouts, sure, but he was expected to do so much. How could he "save the world" when they didn't even help him with that?

Arngeir frowned, walking down the long hall with Alodie following him with longer strides.

He sighed. "Being Dragonborn gives you the ability to learn at a faster rate than normal. It is not that we cannot trust to you, Dragonborn, we just cannot trust this power."

He huffed. _Right,_ he thought, _isn't that just convenient. _

He figured that the Greybeards had enough of his probing questions when they sent him off to find Jurgen Windcaller's—the founder of the Way of the Voice—horn in a tomb off to the west.

His attention turned to the present when he heard Lydia behind him mutter something. He glared behind his shoulder to the persistent Nord.

"What?" he asked.

Lydia gave him a frown before motioning with her helmet towards the road behind them.

"I think we're being followed."

He froze then, looking off towards the colorful trees that swayed with the wind. He nodded once towards her before nickering his horse to turn around, heading towards the tree line.

He had felt a presence as well however he had assumed it to simply be wolves stalking them from beyond. He squinted his eyes, peering past bushes and branches before noticing a blue mixed with the orange.

He breathed slowly, getting off of his horse and edging near the form.

"Probably just a bear," he said to throw the person off. And it worked. As he dived for the mysterious shadow, he heard a deep shriek followed by a few birds who had been disturbed from their sleep above the branches. He held chainmail in his hands tightly, holding his knife close to the man's face. He was surprised to see the mask of a Stormcloak soldier that shuddered from beneath his hold.

Alodie shook him once against the tree, knocking the helmet off of his face.

And before him was that Stormcloak, Ralof. He grunted once, bringing both hands to his chest struggling out of surprise.

"Get off!" he shouted, bringing Alodie to release him to the ground. The Stormcloak seized his helmet, stumbling once, before standing facing the Dragonborn. He smirked as if he had been a child caught stealing a sweetroll. "Hello again."

Alodie frowned dangerously, giving him a suspicious eye. "Why are you following me?" he asked harshly.

The Stormcloak shrugged. "I was ordered to get an answer and, unfortunately, that answer won't do."

Alodie groaned. Was this Stormcloak stupid? He wasn't going to say yes or no anytime soon and if he had to answer now, he would say _no_. He promised himself to avoid any of Skyrim's conflict including the Civil War. He felt as if he wanted to prove Hadvar wrong in a way…though he already had himself conflicted with this Dragonborn nonsense.

He gave Lydia an eye who didn't respond. She had followed him as well, surprisingly. He hadn't expected the housecarl to follow him after her supposed duty of delivering him alive to the top of High Hrothgar. In fact, he had never been too sure about the whole "Thane of Whiterun" and doubted that he had any real housecarl. He had thought Lydia had been a "spy" of sorts. And a rather obvious one.

He sighed, shaking his head as he headed towards his horse again.

"You can follow us until I die, I still won't give you an answer." He moved his horse forward however the Stormcloak was still persistent.

"Just take the axe. That's all you need to do."

Lydia gave Alodie an eye. "Ulfric offered you _an axe,_" she said in shock. She pulled up closer to him, her dark eyes eyeing the Stormcloak in horror. "Stop…just _wait!"_

He was surprised—Lydia never showed her true emotions and for once he saw complete and utter terror. He sighed, turning around, tired of all of these people following him.

"What?" he asked harshly.

"You have to accept it."

He widened his eyes in surprise. He looked down at Ralof who gave him a nervous smile then a wave. He frowned deeply, confused.

"…Why?" he asked, suspicious. After all, Lydia was totally _against_ the Stormcloaks if their ambush by them hadn't been an example. She pulled him closer in order to whisper.

"Ulfric wants loyalty. It's an old Nordic tradition that he would expect the Dragonborn to know. Or what his pig-headed brain thinks you know. If you refuse the axe, he's your enemy—no matter what."

His eyes widened at this, glaring at Ralof who stood nervously by. He acted calm for a messenger to the Dragonborn himself, which was weird. Didn't Ralof know about this? That he would be making enemies with Ulfric? He hadn't expected Stormcloak to threaten him—at least, not this early. Why did this leader want to win his favor so quickly? What was it that he wanted him to do?

Why was everyone currying towards his favor _now?_ He sighed deeply, shaking his head. It was because he was Dragonborn—and Ulfric had guessed where he would go next of course.

He looked over at Ralof, grunting. "_Why do these people…"_ he shook his head, "I'm not threatened by your _Jarl_, Stormcloak," he finally said loudly. "I am not a Nord, therefore, I do not care about Nordic customs." Just as he was about to ride away, he heard the ringing of steel. He turned.

"Then we are enemies then. I thought the Imperials wanted you dead for a reason. That was why you were on that carriage. And that's why I thought you would change your mind." He laughed, bringing his sword up to his waist. "I guess I was wrong."

Lydia unsheathed her sword and began to run down Ralof with her horse before she heard Alodie call out behind her.

"Wait!"

She stopped, looking towards the Dragonborn with confusion.

"Wait? He just threatened you. It is my duty to kill him."

Alodie paused as he looked the Nord up and down. This Ralof was stubborn and foolish, he could easily be run down by both of them and no one would ever know who did the deed. He substituted bravery for stupidity.

And yet…he was right.

He waved Lydia back as he got off of his horse, looking the man in the eyes. Ralof still gave him a cold stare, never faltering. His eyes might have been sharp, but his hold on his sword wasn't. It was rather strange really. Before, he wouldn't have noticed something like this when he was a spy for the Empire. He never cared whether someone was foolish or brave. It usually just helped him in any case.

He surprised even himself when he smiled.

"You're afraid."

Ralof narrowed his eyes, glancing towards the opposite side of the road. He swallowed deeply, his hands slippery in his grip. And when the Imperial in front of him simply swatted the sword away, he blanched. "And bluffing," he said softly.

Alodie wasn't sure why this Stormcloak was frightened of him when he didn't even display any sort of power in front of the man. Maybe this Nord was actually a coward, putting up a façade to hide his terror.

When he broke away from the Stormcloak, he could sense the relief flowing out of him. He climbed on his horse once again, this time without looking back.

He knew he would follow him anyway.

* * *

The Legate Rikke was surprised she was alive. Actually, she was surprised that General Tullius had made it out in one piece. _Again_. The dragons had come out of nowhere and had decimated the forts, sending the towers straight into the White River.

Both sides suffered large damages.

She smiled. It looked as if the dragons were winning the war instead of either Imperials or Stormcloaks. They had taken the forts in little under an hour when it had taken them at least a few days to plan the crossing. She could see that General Tullius wasn't happy about this either.

"Where are these bloody things coming from?" he asked no one in particular. He stood before a war tent, sheltered by the snow and wind as he pondered his next move. She wondered why they sat around below the Throat of the World as if Ulfric would come at them here. They had been there for two weeks already and she had about enough patience to simply get out and head back to Solitude and throw away her badge of office. Of course…that sort of action would be treason.

She sighed as she opened the tent flaps for them both. "The sky, obviously, General."

Tullius smirked. "If I wasn't used to your arrogance already, Legate, I would have demoted you already."

_Arrogance,_ she had wanted to say, _is prized here in fair Skyrim._ But she didn't say a word.

They were running out of rations, the soldiers were huddling around each other like wolf packs and scavenging like crows. She was worried that the General had lost his touch after the dragon attack, and yet he still held onto some hope.

He looked up. "Have you heard the news, Legate?" he said. "The messenger?" When she shook her head, he laughed. "That soldier did it. Hadvar and his platoon of soldiers. He got this prized 'crown' that Ulfric wanted so badly."

The Legate smiled, for once. She hadn't expected Hadvar to actually pull off a stunt like that. However, the General didn't seem too happy as he sat down, tired from his daily activities of ordering soldiers around.

She frowned with him. "What's wrong?"

"Balgruuf wants a meeting with us. That's why we have been stuck here for so long."

She raised her eyebrows at this revolution, surprised that it wasn't due to the fact of their poor supply of food.

She opened her mouth in surprised only to be interrupted by an incoming soldier. He saluted quickly to the General. She knew exactly what he was going to say before he even said it. _Balgruuf is here._

They exited the tent and found themselves engulfed with an army of Whiterun soldiers—outnumbering them by half at least. She was surprised at their numbers however she knew that they only were strong because they had been crippled. If General Tullius hadn't lost so much, there would have been triple the amount of soldiers they had now.

And, leading the train of guards was Jarl Balgruuf the Greater—the last Hold to remain free from this war. Some said that it was because of how freely trade went through Whiterun but Rikke knew differently. Balgruuf was never on good terms with Ulfric or Elisif. Maybe he had been friends with the High King before he was killed but Balgruuf never really trusted his wife. He was almost as paranoid as Ulfric, however, he was smart about it.

The Jarl was bundled in rich furs and had an axe across his back, his housecarl on a black horse beside him. It was strange for a Dark Elf to be a housecarl—especially with how Nords viewed outsiders—but to her it showed a quiver of hope. That Balgruuf would choose the right side.

General Tullius stood up straighter as the Jarl got off of his horse, aiming to walk straight towards him. The Legate wondered why exactly they were called to talk with him.

The blond Jarl nodded once in understanding though none of the soldiers around them understood at all. Balgruuf nodded towards his Housecarl who followed behind him swiftly, giving them a sneer.

The Jarl smiled. "General Tullius," he said once. "It's good to meet you again."

The General tilted his head, giving him his infamous frown. "You sent a message. Do you want to speak with me?" he asked.

"Yes…but not now. It has been a long ride from Falkreath after all."

Tullius nodded once and headed towards the tent. The Legate followed behind him soundlessly, questions filling her mind. Was the General finally able to convince the Jarl to join their side? Before, the Jarl wouldn't have come even close to an Imperial soldier never mind one of their camps. Was this due to the fake battle plans they sent along before?

General Tullius suspected her suspicions. "This has nothing to do with the war, Legate," he said. "I have a feeling that he wants something else. I think."

She sighed, realizing that he didn't sound too convinced.

They waited around for an hour until it happened to be dinner. A few soldier brought in legs of mutton along with hard cheese and bread. They really couldn't afford to eat in luxury.

That was when the Jarl came back. He gave them both quiet stares before sitting at the rickety table at least three feet away. A sign of mistrust.

"It's almost the end of Heartfire," he started slowly, picking up the mutton tenderly. "How goes the war?"

Rikke was suspicious. Why would this Jarl waste his time here when he could be heading home to a Hold they barely had any guards? He had to have an ulterior motive for this meeting.

The General shifted in his chair.

"Poorly," he said. "Two dragons teamed up against both armies a few weeks ago. It was a devastating blow for both sides. I have a feeling that it will take a while for us to recover."

The Jarl nodded. "I see…and do you know what Ulfric is planning?"

"No," was all the General said. She could tell that he was suspicious just as she was. If the Jarl didn't participate in the war, why should they tell him anything? The Jarl was worried, she could tell. His brow was sweating profusely and his eyes seemed to shift around as if expecting something to happen. As if they would strike them right then and there.

The Legate sat up. "What do you want, Jarl Balgruuf?" she finally asked.

The Jarl looked at her before twisting away towards Tullius.

"Nothing," he said. "Just information that you do not have."

He began to stand before being stopped by the General.

"You still haven't chosen a side, Balgruuf," he said. "I find it difficult to trust someone who could just as easily become a Turncoat like those Stormcloaks. I trust my Legate. I trust my Emperor. I trust Elisif." He laughed once. "And do you know why? Because they want to destroy any traitors to the Empire."

He took a drink of wine that sat beside his plate. "You on the other hand play it like a coward behind your walls. Hiding from either side because you don't want to get your boots dirty. But, guess what? Everyone has already made a sacrifice. What type of Nord honor do you even believe i—"

The Jarl turned around suddenly and banged his fist upon the table, his eyes furious. The old table split causing the food and plates to fall onto the dirty ground, soiling their meal. Legate Rikke sat there with bread still in hand.

"_Sacrifice_?" The Jarl said, voice rising. "You do not realize what goes on around your little war, _General._ People die for your war. People from my hold as well. Farms burn, people starve, families torn apart. What then? You think I am spared because I say 'no'? I know what denying your…'offer' means, General Tullius. And I stand by my answer."

"What happens, then," the General interrupted, "when Ulfric decides to take your hold?"

Balgruuf didn't even answer, shaking his head once before undoing the flap to the tent, calling for his Housecarl.

It took her General a moment before kicking his mutton, already beginning to swarm with maggots. She sighed, shaking her head. She knew the Jarl was stubborn, but he seemed as if he was down to nothing. Whatever he discovered down south, he was beginning to doubt even his own abilities.

The General stood. "We're leaving to Solitude. Now."

"_Now_?" she repeated in surprise.

General Tullius sighed. "You want to stay, Legate?"

She frowned before leaving the tent, preparing her orders for the entire army—or what was left of it. Sometimes, she really wanted to punch her General in the face.

But, of course, that would be treason.

* * *

Riften hadn't changed since he last saw it. It was midnight when they finally made their way to the crime city—the best time of day for thieves. He was worried about the kind of reception he would get from the Guild. Would they kill him? Dump him in the lake? Skin him alive?

The Housecarl hadn't asked any questions until now.

"Why have we come here?" she asked. Alodie sighed as he walked upon the wooden planks.

"I made a promise to a friend," he replied. Lydia rolled her eyes at that answer.

"You mean your girlfriend?"

Alodie frowned in confusion.

"Huh?"

They both remained silent before Lydia sighed.

"Nevermind. Forget it."

He did indeed forget it as he entered the Bee and Barb Inn, the familiar scents wafting over him in waves. Minus the drunken laughter and pilfering, it was one of the better places in the Rift.

He hadn't expected Brynjolf to be there, standing vigilantly. The red haired Nord grinned as he made his entrance though his eyes glanced over Lydia nervously. He sat at one of the far tables beside one of the thieves—Sapphire he remembered her name being—drinking to the sounds of a travelling bard.

"Well, well, well! You finally make your way back here, lad," he said. Beside him, Sapphire glared daggers. Alodie sat in the empty seat across from him, Lydia pulling a chair from another table. Bryn grinned. "I see you have a friend."

"Not now," Alodie said. "I want to know what has been going on around town."

Bryjolf licked his lips. "Tons have happened while you were gone, Alo. Mercer had a fit after you escaped with the little lion. He had sent Rarnis after you, but he hasn't come back from Whiterun yet. Just a little advice, I would stay away from Mercer until he comes back—gone a bit insane after your little stunt."

Alodie searched through his bag before he found the note, crumpled yet still readable.

"Would this be enough for him to forgive me?" he said brazenly. He slid the letter onto the table, the dagger symbol still visible on top. It only took that for Brynjolf's eyebrows to scrunch up.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Honningbrew."

The red haired Nord sat back in his seat, taking the note with him. "_Just what in Oblivion are you doing, __Gulum-Ei? Bastard…_" he barely heard him whisper.

"Gulum-Ei?" he asked in return.

The thief shook his head, placing the letter back down onto the table, eyeing Sapphire who gave him a worried stare. He made to stare at Lydia.

"Since this is important…I will try and make Mercer understand. At least you haven't brought the little lion and her pet. But…your friend can't come. You understand." He stood up and began to head towards the door, followed by Sapphire who paused to give him a warning.

"You're lucky Brynjolf likes you, traitor," she said before leaving.

Those words chilled his spine, reminding him of similar words. He turned to face Lydia who had remained silent during the entire meeting. She glared at him openly, not used to dealing with thieves.

"Normally, I wouldn't say anything…but I don't think your rendezvous will amount to much." She stood up then and began to walk away, talking towards the inn keeper for a room. He sighed. Alodie still had many questions for the warrior and he knew that she would answer none of them. But he still hoped.

"Why are you still following me anyway?" he asked as they walked up to their rooms. She stopped at the stairs.

"Because I'm your Housecarl. I promised the Jarl I would keep you safe, no questions asked. Haven't I said this already?" She continued up, however, Alodie blocked her path.

"I wasn't the only one who noticed how much those guards responded to you. If I was apparently in charge, why do I feel as if you were there for another reason?" he asked.

Lydia narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. "You are a paranoid bastard, aren't yah? Have you even considered that they only listened to me because I was a louder voice? Being _Dragonborn_ doesn't give you automatic privileges to boss the hell out of people. I've known most of those guards all my life. I trained with them. So, I'm _sorry_ that they just happened to listen to me more then you. I'm sorry you're such a paranoid, arrogant _prick_."

She walked up the stairs and shoved Alodie out of the way, leaving him motionless.

_Maybe_, he considered, _I was wrong_.

For once, he felt guilty about his suspicions about Lydia. He never really considered that his Thaneship was a _real_ thing and not simply a mask that Lydia hid behind. It was painful, _really_, that he could trust no one. He wished, for once, that he was like everyone else—a simple farmer maybe? Just a common soldier or family man? Not a traitorous spy who trusted no one and wasn't trusted by anyone. He still didn't understand—after the Greybeards constant insistency that he was one of destiny—why he of all people was the _Dragonborn_.

He leaned against the wall as a maid walked up past him, holding a basket full of sheets. He shook his head before climbing up after her, heading towards his room number.

It was paranoia that had kept him alive, so, why would he ever change that?

* * *

She remembered promising herself, once, to never walk into a Nordic tomb. _Again_. But, apparently, fate brought her to another one—a deep and cold one.

Mjoll held her battle axe out as Farkas led them into an open room, a cold wind from the cracks in the ceiling brushing old leaves and cobwebs away. She shuddered—killing those draugr hadn't exactly been easy. Especially since they were already supposed to be _dead_.

Before she could even relax, two blue lights shined from the darkness, a deep cackle reverberating off the walls. She sighed, already suffering cuts from blows of the past enemies. Farkas, unsurprisingly, laughed at the undead—eager to go into battle. Screaming Kodlak's name, he plunged his bastard sword into the draugr, its laughs turning to death tolls.

She covered him, banging her axe into an undead's shield. It came after her with its sword, but she twisted away quickly enough for it to fall away, off balanced. Giving it a forceful shove, she slashed its back, bones and flesh flying off the long dead body. She sighed, realizing that she had to cut off its head before it really died, as it came after her again.

It feigned her left before it struck true against her armor, the metal ringing from the dent. She grimaced, tightening her muscles before yelling out again, this time her axe connecting with the thing's head. It collapsed messily onto the floor along with the other corpses.

She was breathing heavily, leaning against the stone wall. She saw Farkas coming up to her.

"I'd be careful, whelp. I don't want to have to carry you to Jorrvaskr on my back," he said, sheathing his long blade. He took out a water skin and passed it to her after taking a large swig. She caught it, barely, and was relieved by the lukewarm water that flowed into her mouth. After she drank, she sneered at him.

"You know, you could have helped me. You were just standing there as I was taking that beating," she said.

The large warrior shrugged. "Not my trial."

"Trial?"

Farkas walked away then quickly, looking through the junk inside the ancient bookshelves as if looking for something, she narrowed her eyes. "You really think something that important is going to be mixed up with _rubbish_?" she asked.

Farkas didn't turn to look at her. "I'm trying to find something to open that," he said, pointing to the opposite entrance. The way forward was barred, however, a lever sat in the opposite room—looking a little suspicious. She sighed, walking towards it as Farkas was still searching for a way out, foolishly. _Is this guy blind?_

She noticed that a gate was above the entrance as she walked towards the lever and wondered if, once she pulled the device, the gate would lock her in there. She really hoped that wouldn't be the case.

She noticed Farkas looking over towards her. "Ah," he said. "You found it."

_Not without your cunning intellect,_ she thought wryly. She hesitated before placing her hand on the lever. Before she pulled, she could have sworn she had heard people running off into the distance. She sighed. Probably even more of those buggers.

The lever had done exactly what she had expected, the gate behind her shutting closed. She sighed, taking her hand off the device. Sometime, she hated when she was right. Farkas came up to her, smirking.

"Trapped?" he asked.

She sneered. "Get me out of here."

Farkas shrugged. "They never said getting you unstuck was against the rule—"

Suddenly, behind Farkas, warriors upon warriors rushed in with spears, crossbows, and swords. Her eyes widened as she saw them, Farkas turning around to see what she was worried about. The warriors had silver armor and weapons—reminding her of a similar group. _But it couldn't be,_ she reasoned. _There aren't any werewolves._

The leader of the group smiled as if he had won.

"Companions," he said. "We knew you would be showing up here eventually. Took your time though."

Surprisingly, Farkas didn't unsheathe his sword.

"Well?" the snobby Imperial said. "Are you one of the Circle or not? Because if you aren't, that would make our job easy."

"Farkas!" Mjoll shouted. She couldn't do anything. And without her help, he didn't stand a chance. Though... they didn't really stand a chance against that many anyway. He turned his head around and gave her a sly look, looking feral.

"Guess I have no choice…"

Then, he _grew._

Suddenly, he appeared much taller then he already was. His skin melded into different shapes, almost consuming his armor. Hands became claws, feet became daggers. His nose grew into a snout and a row of teeth that roared, scaring the living daylights out of her. She shook violently along with the silver warriors who dropped weapons in terror as the monster descended upon them.

All she saw of the massacre was blood and limbs flying around the room like snow. The screams echoed down the halls as…Farkas…chomped on skulls and hearts. What had been ten living beings became ten dead bodies, lost amongst the draugr lying upon the floor.

When the…thing…turned to look at her—she was surprised to see eyes of kindness. That, and only that, calmed her down.

Farkas was a werewolf.

And the Silver-Hand despised werewolves.

Suddenly, everything made much more sense.

Farkas disappeared into the opened alcove quickly as if he was guilty that he just massacred and ate ten people in front of her. She waited at the lever for at least an hour before the gate opened noisily. Farkas appeared then, walking towards her as if her hadn't _transformed into a terrifying beast._

When he came up to her, he smiled.

"Sorry…I didn't scare you, did I?"

* * *

**Finally got this out! So, sorry for the delay again—but this time I do have an excuse! My computer broke. And all the files I had are gone :( Though, I was still able to bring you this chapter! **

**No promises on when next chapter will come out though…**

_Hinode~Dawn_


	3. The Silver Hand

**One of Destiny**

* * *

"Be careful. Their leader is a tricky one. They call him 'The Skinner.' I don't think I need to tell you why."

Aela the Huntress

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Silver Hand**

The mornings were cold, Aerin realized, and his company with the Skinner didn't really help. He found it odd about the type of welcome he was received by the Silver Hand—he thought that they would try to kill him on the spot. Unfortunately, they enjoyed torturing their victims than giving them the pleasure of a quick death.

"So, boy," the Skinner said as he sat at the table across from him. He didn't even move to glance at the fur-cloaked man. "You gonna tell me why you decided to come here?"

He came here after having a talk with Alodie. He realized that what he was doing—with Mjoll, with Riften—was an excuse to keep his past away from his future. He didn't want to have anything to do with the cult his father had once been the leader of. At all. In fact, he didn't even know what exactly he was supposed to do now that the Silver Hand wasn't trying to kill him. It was definitely confusing him.

He huffed. "I don't want anything from _you._" He glanced up into the stonework ceiling. The place was cold due to the lack of fire and the stones only seemed to bring the cold in rather than keep it out. He noticed that the Skinner was displeased as the dangerous man edged closer to him.

"You think this is a game, bastard. Eh?" The Skinner spat onto the table before him. "You really don't know what your father did, did you? You were just a child after all, hidden from us because your father couldn't admit to falling for one of _them._ And, once we found out, it tore our group apart. Spent twenty years before we could even call ourselves the Silver Hand again. And you think this is just a game." He laughed darkly before standing up. Aerin glared at the Nord as he walked away. "I would follow."

Since he had no real choice, he got up ready for anything. A few of the barbarians in silver armor glared at him as he walked the halls—most spitting towards his feet. He was used to the treatment after living here for a week, but he still felt ashamed. And alone.

_Maybe this wasn't a good idea,_ he thought as he climbed the stairs of the tower with the Skinner. After all, he had left on a pure whim anyway. And Mjoll or Alodie hadn't found him yet—most likely due to the fact they didn't know that the Skinner took over one of the Stormcloak's forts after that battle.

_The Skinner._

He sighed. That wasn't really his true name—no. Krev the Skinner was a beast now—a betrayer through and through. Once he hunted werewolves and now he became as beastly as them, dressing in their skins and parading around like the head of a pack. And the murderer of his father.

_Brave,_ he thought lowly to himself. _I have to be brave._

But, being brave wouldn't be enough.

The Skinner walked into the old dungeons, once they held criminals of Whiterun, now they held wolves. He led him to a prison in the corner—dark blood seeping through the cracks. He heard a low growl coming from the darkness then saw yellow eyes piercing the thick air like the two moons. The Skinner came up to the cell and laughed as if the werewolf was a court jester.

"Don't you see these fiends," he said, unlocking the door. Aerin's eyes widened. "They are little more than mutts. They are trained by instinct yet, in their human forms, try to forget. Forget that they even turned rabid in the first place." The Skinner opened the door fully to revel the werebeast, chained. The thing struggled in its bindings but couldn't bite at the Skinner for a small metal cage fit to trap a skeever held its teeth back.

Aerin noticed the dark blood all over the cell and nearly gagged, holding his mouth. The Skinner held his torch closer to the beast, showing an almost skeletal form of what was once a dangerous predator. He shivered again in fear causing the Skinner to laugh.

"You fear a dog, bastard. A broken down, old, beaten, _dog._ Do you know the reason why the Silver Hand hunts? Because no one else will. The Companions especially have lost what they once truly stood for. Mercenaries, barbarians, beasts—the lot of them. Hundreds of years ago they fought _with _us, the Silver Hand. We were a respected family in Whiterun—old, yet small. And we all joined and respected the Companions." His voice grew dark. "Until they made the deal."

He took out a brittle knife, the edges worn yet sharp. At this, Aerin took a step back, however, the knife never shined towards his direction. The Skinner's smile flickered with the torch light as he raised it, the werewolf's eyes reflecting in the metal.

"I know this," Aerin said shakily. "He—my father told me this story."

"He told you the wrong one." Was all the Skinner said to that before continuing. "One by one the Silver Hand fled the Companions that betrayed the five hundreds trust—exchanging Sovengaurd for power and dealing with a Deadric Lord. We left the betrayers with a fire burning in our hearts."

He raised the knife quickly before plunging it into the beast's arm—its roars echoing throughout the tower. Aerin blanched as the Skinner drew the knife down the beast's arm until it stuck in bone, pulling the weapon out of the poor animal. The blood trickled down like a waterfall, the beast squirming like a caught fish. And the Skinner only laughed.

"We left with a fire, and a promise, to kill all of these beasts until no more can the Companions drink the blood of the wolf. And, take back what we—as the true Companions—believe to be ours."

Aerin knew this story to be different, that the Skinner told true. As a small boy, his father had told him that the Silver-Hand family did deny the power given to them, but instead of promising to eradicate the werewolves, they lived a nomadic life as he once did before he came unto his father's fortune. He also never mentioned that the Companions had never wanted this-that it was a curse not a gift from a deadric lord.

The Skinner looked at him with a grin before turning towards the beast. "They are more wolves now. More than there once were." He plunged his knife into the heart of the beast. "And you are going to help us, bastard, or die, wishing for a better chance, in one of my cells. Clinging to the walls before I wear your skin, parading you around—and more regal—then you are now."

The chill went down his spin and suddenly it was as if he had walked into a blizzard. He was afraid of this man, the man who killed his father. And yet, he couldn't tell him no. He had promised himself that he would be brave and yet he still failed at that. He was really worthless after all.

The Skinner took his silence as an answer, leaving him to the dangling corpse of the werewolf—it's yellow eyes still bright enough to scare him into submission.

He wished, again, that Alodie hadn't been right.

* * *

The Rat Way's were still as disgusting and clammy as normal—even with the weather changing so quickly. Alodie came down the ladder slowly, nervous as to what he would expect from the Thieves Guild leader, but still held his head up high. He knew that Mercer would not succumb to a meek mind—certainly not a nervous one.

And there he was now, glaring at him with hostile eyes that could pierce a normal human's soul. He almost felt like running away that instant but something told him to keep pressing on, no matter what the threat.

He saw Bryn of to the side giving him thumbs up while edging him forward with a waved hand. He wondered why he always looked so relaxed—even around Mercer. They obviously had a history together.

Keeping his cool, he paced forward, meeting Mercer's eyes. The leader snorted.

"You really must have the nerve—showing up like you are now. I heard from Brynjolf that you're going to give me something that has to do with a breach in our group. Well?" He held out his hand, waiting. Alodie nodded once as he took out the letter from his pocket, placing it in the gloved hand. He almost hesitated before giving it to him but he didn't really feel that there should be anything to fear. Nothing in the letter really made sense to him anyway.

Mercer grunted in response, sitting down at his desk while rubbing his newly grown close-cut beard. Alodie also noticed—along with the messy beard—dark bags underneath the leader's eyes. Something happened while he was gone, and it wasn't good.

"So, this is it then," he said, sighing, shaking his head. "I knew that bastard would betray us eventually but I never knew he was this stupidly brave."

Alodie wanted to mention that the Thieves Guild _was _stupidly brave in theory but didn't due to the fact that Mercer looked as if he could kill anybody right now. He looked down at his boots instead, impatient to get out of Riften with another mission. Lydia was still asleep—hopefully—at the inn and he didn't want her to suspect anything else while they were there. And there was still that Stormcloak spying on them. He wasn't sure if he had gone back to Windhelm by now or was in Riften, stalking the entrance to the Thieves Guild like prey.

The Guild leader faced him with his eagle eyes.

"You've read this, I take it, but have no idea who wrote it. Not this Gujul-Lie, of course he goes by another name. This sigil is from our insider to the East Empire Company. Gulum-Ei has been smuggling from the best trade imports for years and I've known that bastard for even longer. Hell, I'm surprised it has taken him this long to betray me."

At that, Alodie raised an eyebrow. "Betrayed you?"

Mercer smirked as he sat back in his seat. Alodie was about to question further before the Breton laughed softly, shaking his head.

"It can't really be her…" he heard the man whisper.

"Her…?"

The leader straightened. "Nothing." Alodie was about to ask again what that was about before the leader continued, changing the subject. "You let that Nord escape the city, didn't you? I don't really see what the point of all that was, but it isn't as if Maven is mad at you. In fact, she wants to see you again. That's why I sent Rarnis after you but maybe you missed him." Alodie noticed that he said all of that with a bitter tone. Almost as if the man was jealous of him. He thought once about that before completely dismissing that idea.

Mercer, jealous? He was the leader of a ruffian group equal in fame to that of a brigade of bandits based in Cyrodiil. He was second to Maven when it came to power. Alodie wasn't sure if this man was simply greedy, prudent, or strict with his influence.

And he didn't like the fact that Maven wanted to see him again either. He hated that fake woman—deeply. Maybe he could just escape Riften again and ignore the tycoon's orders. It wasn't as if he hadn't ignored what Maven said before.

"Why does she want to see me?" he asked, glancing past Mercer's dangerous eyes to Brynjolf.

The red head Nord smirked devilishly at him. "It is hard to impress a Black-Briar—this much has been said before. Maven especially was surprised by your defiance. After all, she surrounds herself with yes men and beggars. Maybe she's just tired of it all."

"Shut up, Brynjolf," Mercer suddenly cut in. "You don't know what you are saying."

The Nord grimaced at the leader. "So, are you saying that we aren't the beggars of Maven Black-Briar? That we don't take our orders from her highness? This isn't what the Thieves Guild was meant to be, Mercer. Ever since—"

"I said. Shut. Up!"

The room suddenly grew silent as the leader's words echoed throughout the hollow room. The thieves glanced over at their direction, murmuring softly at the sudden disturbance before noticing Alodie. He frowned as they started their whisperings again—rumors about his disappearance and his betrayal. He sighed before glancing at Mercer's red face.

"And what do you want me to do about this?" he asked.

The Thieves Guild leader slightly calmed down as if he had almost given himself away.

"I don't want you to do anything about _this_. You don't have any right to be meddling in my or the Thieves Guild's problems. At all. Actually, I want you out. _Now._ Go see Maven and tell her of the news of Honningbrew's demise. Then, leave Riften. Do whatever. Just don't come back."

Brynjolf sighed. "Come on, Mercer. Give the kid a break. We've all had our rebellious moments when we were young." He smirked. "I had been the one to break you out of that prison in High Rock, remember? If she hadn't said to let you go of course. What I'm saying is we all need a second chance. Why won't you give him one?"

Alodie hadn't really liked Brynjolf before, but now he wasn't exactly sure what to think. He was a slimy bastard who looked as if he could slice a man's throat the minute their back was turned; however, at the same time, he considered these thieves, these vagabonds, these outcasts, as family. Unlike Mercer. Actually, he wondered why Byrnjolf wasn't the leader of this pack—Mercer seemed to have a rather thin grip on all of them. As if thieves were Dwemer machines to be used for an ultimate goal. But what goal? What did Mercer want from them?

He didn't bother asking as he turned away, heading towards the exit. Surprisingly, he heard a voice from behind. "Actually…there is one thing you can do for me, kid."

He paused before he could shove the rogues before him aside and turned, giving the leader a cold eye.

"What?" he asked. The Breton glanced towards Brynjolf as if trying to confirm something before looking straight at him.

"I want you to go and investigate Gulum-Ei in Solitude. If he talks to another traitor, maybe his benefactor would reveal himself. After all, it has been awhile."

He found the Breton's sentence strange but didn't comment on it as he moved to the exit, being pursued still by Brynjolf. He didn't really want to listen to Mercer any more since he already had a million problems to deal with, but he wanted to know the truth. Too many questions were floating about his mind for him to ignore this. Alodie wondered if maybe this was why he got himself into trouble way too often. His curiosity had, after all, caused his sister's death. It caused him to join the Thieve's Guild. To become Dragonborn.

When he went outside, Brynjolf began speaking to him, "Look, Alo, don't take what Mercer said too harshly. He's been in a bad spot recently."

He ignored the man's words as he walked past a shrine to Talos, past the nightshade and thorns of the graveyard. The morning air almost choked him as he opened a rusty gate, leaving it open since he knew Brynjolf was still following him. Why did people follow him? He wasn't asking anyone to.

He barely realized that he was heading to Maven's mansion as he stopped, looking down into the river. The mists swirled around the water like the mists of High Hrothgar—although Hrothgar's were much thicker. He heard Brynjolf laugh to himself.

"You really are determined, aren't yah?" he said. "You know…there is a reason Mercer is so calculating. Why he doesn't want to take risks with betrayers." Alodie looked over towards the Nord who came beside him, leaning his back onto the railing. "We were all betrayed once by a Dunmer of the name of Karliah. She loved our old guild leader, Gallus, dearly—or at least that was what we thought. She killed him in front of Mercer and disappeared before he could exact revenge. I was told stories when I was a young lad living in Morrowind that love kills the brightest fool but I never knew… I thought that they really did love each other.

"But that was never the case. All four of us had once been friends, Gallus, Karliah, and Mercer even closer then I was to them. Now, Mercer trusts no one because he had trusted Karliah as much as he had trusted Gallus. And the Guild fell apart because of it."

Alodie glanced over towards Bryn whose face was deeply engraved with an old sorrow. He realized then that he had mistrusted Mercer for no real reason beside the fact that he happened to distrust everyone, even Brynjolf. He remembered feeling similarly—and even now he still has that left over fear burning from inside. The burning passion for survival.

He sighed before shaking his head, not really expecting Brynjolf to come up to him and pour his feelings out. It was unexpected yet…strangely welcome. He never really had anyone to talk to that actually took his words seriously since Mjoll and Aerin left…When he thought of them both his heart almost seemed to pause in doubt.

"Well, you just need to pick up the pieces then, don't you?" he said. He looked at Bryn with determination. "This Guild is still broken, as I see it."

He then turned around and opened the door to Maven's mansion, leaving Brynjolf to ponder his words.

* * *

Marcurio's head was pounding when he awoke, smelling the fine scents of puke and lavender. _Lovely, _he thought, rubbing his head, _as if I didn't have any problems already. _After helping Mjoll with her quest to retrieve some poor redguard's sword, he drank with the companions under the stars. He had never had such great company as he drank before and worried that these warriors would spit in his face like the rest of them.

Fortunatly, that was not the case.

"You finally up?"

The wizard took a minute to look around to see where that heavenly voice came from only to find that it came from some girl companion. She seemed familuar-maybe they had talked while he was drunk? He didn't care to remember.

He nodded slurily, knocking over a metal cup that rested beside the nightstand. Somehow, there was still some mead left over in it and the dark liquid began to flood all over the wooden boards.

Cursing, he noticed that this girl was laughing at him.

"Probably not."

He was about to shout back at her but unfortunatly, his mind wasn't quick enough.

"Anyways, your friend has come back. The Circle is going to officially welcome her into the Companions this day. Since you guys seem to be a pair, I thought that you'd might want to know."

_Mjoll_. The crazy woman. He wondered why he even bothered sticking with her. Oh. Right. He was being paid to stay and protect her by Alodie. He was a crazy bastard too.

He decided to follow up on this girl's words and plodded down the hall past a few more brutes. Skyrim was full of them after all. A few gave him eager nods along with snickering. He narrowed his eyes as he looked back over his shoulder towards them. What did he do this time? He better not have played the jester last night or else he would be leaving this sorry place immediately.

He also noticed that this girl was following him while smiling sheepishly with crossed arms. That was when he started to worry.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

This girl only shook her head as she walked past him.

"I just feel sorry for you. That's all."

"Huh?"

His nonsense words went with no response as she climbed up into the ground level of Jorvaskar. He wondered why women were so confusing at times.

He found Mjoll up the stairs, leaning against the wooden wall. Her face was of deep worry as if she had run into a millions dragons out in the field and was the only survivor. When she looked at him, the worry only seemed to spread to him.

As the girl who woke him up nodded to Mjoll and left to spend time with her other companions, he frowned.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Mjoll looked at him again with sad eyes before looking to the ground.

"The Circle is what's wrong. We've been deceived, Marcurio."

At the word "deceived" his ears seemed to perk up like a dog's.

"'Deceived?' By who? That girl made it seem as if you'd done some thing right?"

She looked up into the mage's eyes with a mixed expression. "We are dealing with wolves, Marcurio."

Wolves?

"What in Mara's name are you talking about? Speak clearly or else I won't be able to understan-"

"_Werewolves_."

Oh. He had heard of the beasts when he studied with the Synod in Cyrodiil. A big waste of time, the Synod, of course, but he had no choice but to go to that stupid place. He was born into it after all.

Werewolves were a touchy subject to talk about in the Synod due to their harsh restrictions on conjuration in particular. Anything that dealt with the deadra was left to the ashes-of a fire to be more specific. Fortunately, the Imperial Library more than accurately gave him the information he lacked.

And werewolves, he learned, were a beast he would never want to meet.

Supposedly, during the last blood moon that happened roughly 200 years ago, the beasts have been close to extinction. There were the few disappearances, sure, but there was never anything massive or dangerous about them. The chance to get attacked by werewolves was almost as close to being attacked by a dragon-which was never.

Until now of course.

He shook his head in amazement.

"Werewolves? Who?"

The question was stupid for sure.

"_The Circle_. Farkas... he-we were attacked by the Silver Hand. I was trapped and he...turned into that beast and ripped everyone apart. Like it was nothing. I... can't even believe this. They knew about that Silver Hand but chose not to tell us."

He paused in disbelief. So, they were just pissing around while these lot of Companions decided not to give them the information they needed to find Aerin? He knew that this bunch was suspicious but he didn't know they had such a terrible secret to hide from-well-everyone. Not that he really cared at all...

"They played us the fools, mage. And soon I'll be one of them."

Mjoll stood up straight then and began to walk away. Marcurio wondered what she meant by that before he noticed that bald man-Skjor they called him. An old Great War veteran who couldn't seem to put his sword down. If Marcurio was honest with himself, the man scared him to death.

Probably because he was a werewolf.

Before he could follow, another woman, Njada, walked towards him under a furry. Before he could even speak up towards her, her fist smashed directly into his nose. Blood came flying out in spurts.

"You good for nothing fetcher trying to make a pass at me? We'll see who tries to sleep with who!"

As he was on the ground, he remembered slightly the events of last night. He was _so_ drunk that he stumbled down stairs to the rooms. He just so happened to fall into the wrong bed-the bed of angry Njada-and became a little bit too close to the Nord. It explained the massive headache, that's for sure.

"Njada, calm down! He just was drunk is all," said the kindly young woman that woke him up.

He would have thanked her but he was too pined by his broken nose to say anything.

This Njada laughed. "Look, the milkdrinker is crying."

"Damn you...woman..." he managed to get out.

A kick to the face and he was completely out. Yeah...he never could understand women. _Especially _the Nordic women.

* * *

She was never one to listen to authority so when Astrid told her to ignore the message from the Night Mother, she did the complete opposite. Motierre, she remembered, wasn't a patient person.

She had defied the Brotherhood before by not killing Alodie, but he had simply disappeared after their run in. Truly, it was quite odd, but he was always able to do that-fade away from the public's eye. A true bastard.

The old Nordic tomb was close by and the undead were simply a hassle. She wondered why he chose to met in such a dangerous place-or why he was in Skyrim at all.

Rexus-the bodyguard that always looked after Motierre-stood by the broken down door vigilantly and was surprised at her arrival.

"You...why-?"

"It is a long story and not one that you would want to listen to."

At that, the agent quieted down, returning his stares to the fire. Two mats laid beside a fire, each with a knife beside them. Motierre sat with a knee up, stirring what looked like a dead skeever. He didn't even turn around to face her before he spoke.

"So, you were the one they sent? This makes things easier on the both of us."

He turned to face her, showing a wide smirk along with a newly grown beard. How long had he been here for?

"Why are you here?" she asked. At that, the breton sighed before extending his hand.

"Please, sit, Quill."

She didn't move and when he noticed her inaction, he dropped his hand whilst shaking his head. "I thought you trusted me, Quill. More than that fetcher, anyway. The Brotherhood has changed you I see-maybe not for the better."

"I joined so that you would have an ear inside the last remaining sanctuary in all of Tamriel. I gave you my reports-"

"But not fast enough." He stood up so that they could meet eye to eye before walking past her with a droopy stride. "The Elder Council has grown suspicious of me. Maro was starting to doubt 'killing' Alodie and was starting to wonder if he had any accomplices. Once you left-my biggest mistake-he started _looking_. At _me,_ the one who carried out his 'execution.'"

"I left no trail, my lord," she replied, looking nervous.

He tutted. "Ah, but it is not a trail that they needed, Quill. Just your leaving was what did it. Now, I made the excuse to leave in order to go to Vittoria Vici's wedding-I do make dealings with the East Empire Company, after all. Meanwhile, you left with no explanation. A pity, I thought you were clever."

The khajiit bowed her head in shame. How could she commit such a simple mistake? It was no matter anyway...but still, she felt like a dolt.

"I-I'm sorry-"

"It does not matter. Now, you are of use to me. Did you kill him?"

Quill swallowed deeply before shaking her head, hairs standing on end. She hated it when Motierre was angry-he would throw things, threaten her life. It would make her reconsider her revenge at times.

He sighed. "Of course. I wouldn't have expected you to be able to. That bastard has ruined everything."

"But I will fix his mistakes, my lord," she reassured him, placing a hand on her new quiver and bow. At this, he touched his chin thoughtfully, before smiling.

"I would rather see his rotting corpse." Looking towards his bodyguard, he signaled with a hand. "Rexus, here," he said.

The tough looking Imperial who had an eternal frown turned away from his post, giving him a scroll. He walked away soundlessly, watching for draugr. "Give this to your leader-these directions are for their eyes only. You know the target. You've known the plans. Make it happen."

"Have they changed?" she asked. "Are we going through with it?"

The only word echoed in the tomb was "Yes."

"The Emperor will die by the end of this year," he said, staring into the fires. "And the Oculatus will not stop us."

* * *

**Sorry for the really late update but I was finally able to get a new computer! My last one had broke completely and I spent a month without one. Sorry if this is too short, but I wanted you guys to know that I'm alive so I put together this. Hopefully, the updates will go back to normal now :)**

_Hinode~Dawn_


	4. Innocence and Blood

**One of Destiny**

* * *

_"The Emperor and the legions have held the Empire together for hundreds of years. It's been a good thing, by and large. But maybe it's time for a change. Time for something young and new. What? No idea. Because I'm old. Old dog doesn't get new ideas. But maybe young folks like you should try some new ideas. I don't know. Could be messy. But change is never pretty."_

Wulf (the aspect of Tiber Septim)

* * *

**Chapter Three: Innocence and Blood**

"They can't hurt Uncle Roggvir. Tell them he didn't do it!" yelled his daughter. The small girl would never understand and Addvar realized that she probably never will.

He loved his brother-in-law for what he was, but once he revealed himself as a Stormcloak traitor, he had to take the side of the Empire. Or else...Svari...

An old Imperial saw the spectacle among the raging crowd and touched his shoulder. He was giving him a look of pity."Tell the girl the truth, Addvar. Her uncle is an Imperial traitor. It will save her some tears in the end."

He ignored this Imperial and bent down to Svari's height, looking into her brown innocent eyes.

"Go run to your mother. I don't want you to see this-"

"Uncle Roggvir's innocent, daddy! Tell them!"

He shook his head, but before he could say anything, Roggvir came-led by five Imperial troops and Captain Aldis. Tomatoes were thrown from the populous and struck his brother-in-law in the head, the shins, the arms. He could barely stand looking at him so he glared directly at his daughter.

"Go, now!" he yelled, pushing her away.

With a look of fear, his daughter ran off, away from the rabid crowd that threw cabbages and fruit and soil. He stood near the edge of the crowd and as it parted, he looked into his younger Nord's eyes with pity.

All he saw there, though, was rage. And embarrassment. Yet pride.

Behind him was Legate Rikke who had just returned yesterday from a failed battle with the Stormcloaks in the west. Apparently, Captain Aldis was waiting for the General's word on Roggvir before deciding to put him to the block. No other words, just, "kill him." After a month of imprisonment.

Because of this, ever since yesterday, he had been as cold as iron for his wife.

Roggvir was soaked with tomatoes and feathers-all thrown by the angry mob that stood in the main square where once plays done by the Bard's College were thrown. The High King had loved his comedies (_The Lusty Argonian Maid_ being one of them) and his drink, so the College had been prosperous for the years Torygg ruled.

Not anymore. Now it seemed as if all the plays had turned into tragedies. Executions of Stormcloak prisoners seemed to have increased after Ulfric escaped. And now, every week, another Nord died with honor underneath their breath.

"Honor."

This was no "honorable" way to die.

They led Roggvir up the steps, his feet slipping from the juices-almost appearing as blood. He held his breath as they led him to the block stained with blood. Addvar wondered why they honored the Stormcloaks with such a clean death before realizing that the Imperials had no need of fear in the people when the people were with them to begin with.

"Boo!" yelled an old Nord.

"Traitor!" yelled his neighbor, a mother of two.

"Get on with it!" yelled a mage stranger.

He swallowed deeply as the Captain stepped forward, unraveling a scroll.

"Roggvir son of Tothgar, a guard, is sentenced by the decree of Jarl Elisif of Solitude once High Queen of Skyrim and General Tullius of the Imperial City with crimes of treason and conspiracy. He is charged for lying about Ulfric's whereabouts and allowing the traitor to escape after murdering the High King of Skyrim. His sentence is death."

With those last words, the headsman walked up with his double sided axe-the same man every week. The crowd still threw vegetables and crap at the Nord betrayer, however, he still resisted succumbing to fear.

_Just how Roggvir always was,_ he thought, _He's as stubborn as a mule and would never listen to anyone, even if they were right._

"There was no murder! Ulfric challenged Torryg! He beat the king in fair combat!"

And now was no exception.

More tomatoes found their way onto Roggvir's face and his beard was drenched with red. Just as it would be very soon. He caught Roggvir in the eyes one last time and-for only a split second-he saw fear. And sadness. As if asking to tell his sister he was sorry.

He couldn't show pity for his brother-in-law, though, so, his exterior remained solid and motionless.

"You liar!" shouted a woman. "He used the voice profanely! There was nothing 'fair' about that combat!"

"He doesn't deserve to speak!" yelled another.

More was thrown and most missed their target. His brother-in-law looked away from him.

"Ulfric used his skills to win the battle. And his skills involved the voice. Do you think our High King could have resisted the dragons when it came time? Ulfric won the battle fairly! Such is our way! Such is the ancient custom of Skyrim, and all Nords!"

This riled up the crowd even more-so much so that the guards had to take a step back to avoid the onslaught of farm products and hard rocks. A few hit Roggvir in the face and blood began to flow down his lip. He spat towards them, and they only got angrier.

For the third time since this morning, Addvar shuddered.

Roggvir had been cruel when he was a child. He stole poor children's sweetrolls, climbed up trees and dumped water on couples as they kissed and put tiny mudcrabs into noble Imperials' pants and watched them squirm in pain. He was by no means an honorable Nord. Nor a mature one.

The guard behind Roggvir pushed him closer to the block.

"Cut him down!" yelled the mage behind him.

"I don't need your help," Roggvir said as he got down onto his knees, looking across the crowd one last time.

Addvar remained a rock. He would always be one now. He had no choice. He didn't want the crowd to turn on him. But...this was his sister's brother. A traitor...yes...an annoying git...yes...but his brother-in-law. And there he stood, doing _nothing_. He was the true dishonor to his wife, wasn't he? He couldn't even save her one brother from himself. What type of Nord was he when he couldn't even do that?

_You would die if you tried to stop them_, he thought, _Svari would grow up without an uncle _and _a father.I would not stand for that._

That was when he realized what it truly meant to be honorable.

"Bow your head, Roggvir," the Captain said as the headsman stepped closer, preparing his axe. He complied without any struggle, his neck planting itself onto the worn block. Addvar held his breath as the headsman raised the weapon.

"I go now...into Sovngarde," Roggvir muttered to him brown eyes still looking up.

The only sound Addvar heard for a while was the cheering and the sound of his own angered beating heart.

* * *

"I know you're there, Ralof," Alodie said into the night, the fire's dance lapping beside his feet. Lydia was asleep and he thought of little else then to call out to the Stormcloak.

The meeting with Maven had been brief. With a simple nod once he had told her of the mission's completion, Maven sent him off to do what Mercer deemed favorable. No punishments. No chains. To be honest, he worried more about the lack of punishment for betraying the guild than anything else.

He was too used to punishments for betrayal.

After traveling for about a week, they were close to Stormcloak territory when they stopped, the cold snow beginning to be a bit too much for the both of them. Lydia warned him, again, that they were getting a bit too close to Windhelm though he ignored her, again.

With the rustle of branches off in the dark thicket, Ralof walked into the camp, sitting down beside it as if he had simply gone off to piss and come back. He was smiling.

"Change your mind?" he asked, grabbing the hilt of the axe.

Alodie looked over to Lydia who was surprisingly still asleep. His frown deepened.

"I haven't changed anything. I figured that you wanted to join us. Might as well since you are following me," he said, sitting back. He still kept a hand on his sword though, just in case.

Ralof laughed. "Fine by me. I was getting tired of the cold anyway."

"I'm glad that you're satisfied."

And with a short laugh, the two became quiet and only the sounds of torchbugs and moths filtered through them.

Alodie remembered, once, of the traveling and the camping with the Imperial soldiers. He had been in the Pentius Oculatius, after all, and travelling was a part of the oath. Most of the time, he would have been posted as a simple scout, travelling to the coastlines near the Summerset Isles to make sure the Aldmeri Dominion was keeping to their promises. It was a boring job, but it paid well at the very least.

Most soldiers were joyous, some, solemn. But never quiet like they both were now. And it made him feel uneasy. As if he should say..._something_...

Fortunately, Ralof liked to talk. "I don't care whether you accept the axe or not. I just want you to give us a chance. I understand how you feel about this war-that it's stupid. But it is important to Skyrim. And, I don't want you to end up like my old friend, Hadvar..."

At the mention of the name, he sat up.

"You know Hadvar?" he asked, "He was there, at Helgan, right?"

Ralof nodded, fixing himself so that he could stare even deeper into the fires.

"He and I were raised in Riverwood together. We were naive lads then; we dreamt of honor and glory only a warrior could earn. And a visit to Sovngarde once our lives were over. However...Hadvar had been raised by different people. By a different regime. Sometimes, we could never get over that. And now..." he paused as if trying to find the words before closing his eyes, "...we will probably kill each other in the end."

Alodie glared at the Stormcloak before glancing at Lydia, hoping that his raised voice wouldn't wake her up.

"No one told you to fight for the Stormcloaks just as no one told Hadvar to go off fighting for the Empire."

Although...no one had told him to fight for the Empire either. He had joined the Pentius Oculatius only because he had been seen and considered-then chosen. He joined to put food on the table. He joined for no other reason.

Ralof looked up to glare at the Imperial, then, he shook his head, smirking.

"Ulfric was right. You Imperials could never understand us Nords. Not the Empire, not the Thalmor. We aren't _told_ to fight. We _must _fight. It was the way that I was raised and the way that Hadvar was raised. What 'side' we pick does not matter once we join each other in Sovngarde."

"And you think that _this _is worth fighting a war over? For thousands of innocent lives?"

He had no real room to talk for he had indeed took innocent lives when he betrayed the Oculatius, but this Civil War was butchery for the sake of butchery. Talos was a god once revered in the pantheon-he himself once had his father's necklace as proof-but, when it came down to it, was all of the bloodshed even worth it? People still worshiped Talos in the darkness. It was better than the Thalmor destroying everything and all.

Ralof sighed, picking up some of their left over meal and chewed on the burnt meat.

"No one is innocent, Imperial, when an injustice is committed. You, of all people, should know. The Empire didn't stop to consider _your_ innocence now, did they?" he said, spitting out ash.

"I am by no means, innocent," Alodie said, "I knew of my fate when I was being dragged to the chopping block. I knew that I was going to die for what I did."

Ralof looked up and peered into Alodie's dark eyes, going over them a few times in search for a lie...or a bluff. But now, the Dragonborn's eyes were solid and dangerous as always. He wasn't lying, he had been there on the morning of the 16th of Last Seed as a prisoner of the Empire. A wanted and dead man.

He smiled. "Then why are you so indecisive? You loath the Empire as much as I do. As much as Ulfric does. What is stopping you from raising your sword for Stormcloak's cause?" he asked.

Alodie knew why. He never wanted a choice. To Ralof and Hadvar, it was simple to decide because they knew they had to choose. For him, he didn't even want to go through with it. It all gave him a bitter taste in his mouth.

When he looked away towards the road with a half open mouth of indecision, he knew that Ralof had won their small battle of words. But he would continue fighting-for how long, he didn't know.

He shook his head and stood up, shaking Lydia awake.

"Your shift, house carl," he said, glaring at Ralof. The Stormcloak was smirking at him because he knew that he was right. And yet, he knew that he never wanted what Ralof was considering. To truly commit direct treason to the Empire? He could never consider betraying them again, and not to fight some pointless war either. He had to have a purpose before he did something as reckless as that.

When Lydia awoke, she put her hand to her sword belt as she saw Ralof sitting peacefully by like a sentry, gazing towards the edges of the forest. She stood quickly, bringing her blade to point.

"What are you doing here, _bear_," she scathed, raising her sword near Ralof's head. She was surprised when Alodie lowered her sword-arm and shook his head.

"He's joining us, Lydia," he said, not directly looking in the Stormcloak's direction. At this, Lydia was surprised.

"_Joining_ us? My thane, this _beast_ should not influence you by staying close by. You must fulfill your duties just as I am fulfilling mine." She raised the sword again and shook it, daring Ralof to run away into the thicket he came from. He grinned.

"You flatter me, my lady. I didn't know I was a distraction."

And with those words, Lydia struck, diving for the Stormcloak like an untamed saber-tooth. Alodie quickly went to the Stormcloak's aid, pulling his house carl off-albeit-difficult. Lydia had gotten one punch in Ralof's nose and a kick into his shins before the Dragonborn was able to pull her away, gaining a backwards slap of his own.

"What do you think you are doing?" she yelled at him.

"Stop-just-_stop,_" Alodie yelled at Lydia who backed off, sheathing her sword quickly. She glared at her thane openly but knew that she couldn't resist what he was going to do.

"You aren't truly considering this, my Thane? Ha, you truly are a fool then. I was beginning to think otherwise..." Then, with a quick step backward, she made for her horse, tying the saddle straps on tightly, scaring the horse that had once been asleep.

Ralof sat up, wiping blood from his nose as Alodie went for Lydia.

"Where are you going?" he asked quickly, placing a hand on the saddle.

She looked up to glare at him. "I will not ride with that Stormcloak. _At all._ So, I'm leaving for Whiterun. I won't be helping a traitor like you." She then shoved him away, throwing her travel bag behind the saddle.

"I am not joining the Stormcloaks, Lydia. I would never-"

"You never know, Imperial. You. Never. _Know_. My brother... he-you know what? I'm just leaving. Now. You might as well join the bunch anyway since after I tell the Jarl-"

"I am not joining the Stormcloaks, Lydia!" he yelled for good measure, holding tightly onto the saddle so she couldn't leave. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't want to be a traitor _again_. He didn't want...any of this.

He turned to glare at Ralof whose blue eyes were looking sadly at the spectacle. He then looked at Lydia who was also giving him that same look-a look of disappointment. That same disappointment that he was afraid of.

"I...don't believe you."

And, with that, Lydia tapped the stirrups hard, leaving disturbed snow behind Alodie and Ralof. The moons were setting when Ralof stood and Alodie was still staring off towards the road that Lydia had taken to leave.

"Well, at least there is one less bitch-"

Alodie grabbed the Stormcloak by his blue collar and banged his head upon a tree. Suddenly, his knife was up to Ralof's chin and the silver point was slightly digging into his skin. His eyes were wild with fear...a fear that Ralof recognized.

"This is your fault...! You...you bastard! You're lucky I don't cut your tongue out right now! It's all your fault! All of it!"

He didn't really remember screaming so much before...not since he saw his sister parish in that fire. Finally...he was finally about to start a new life here where the people thought kindly of him. He wasn't a traitor in Skyrim.

And now, he was. He was a traitor to the Empire. Again.

Was it Ralof's fault? Was it truly this man's fault? _If I hadn't called out to him...if I hadn't been so-_Curious. His downfall was his curiosity. _Again_.

The dagger lowered, slowly. It was as if his hand had lost the energy behind it and the blade fell from his hand-a useless weapon. Ralof rubbed his neck, wiping the blood from the minor scratch and looked towards Alodie with a bit of fright. However, instead of anger, he saw complete and utter _pain_.

The Imperial sighed then looked up towards the setting moons. Then, he held out his hand to the Nord, intent for him to give him something. With a slight look of surprise, Ralof grabbed the hilt of the axe he carried-only for the Dragonborn. Only for him.

Alodie never intended to join this war. Never before had he considered to join _the Stormcloaks_ of all people. He told himself every night that he was a traitor and yet every day he pretended that he wasn't.

"You're right, Stormcloak. I hate the Empire. Always have."

He told himself that he had no choice since the beginning. So, he was making his choice, here and now...the choice that he's always made.

He grabbed the hilt of the axe and went to his knees. "I will be friends with Ulfric Stormcloak until the end of my days...believe me in this." But his eyes glistened with fire. And rage.

When he was in the Pentius Oculatius, he once made the choice... when he joined the Thieves Guild he once made the choice...

...to destroy them from the inside.

* * *

Mjoll was gazing off into the darkness, the ceremony to name her a Companion had ended three days ago and everyone was drinking and celebrating inside Jorvaskar. Except for her. So much was still on her mind from the past week.

_The Circle are werewolves, _she thought, _and they are hiding it from everyone._

Marcurio had some problems with Njada before her ceremony three days before now and she worried that the mage might get killed someday. From what she knew of the other Nord, she looked like a hunter and a warrior, ready to kill her enemies. Or, Marcurio in this case.

Looking off past the broken walls of Whiterun, she saw the mountain. The Throat of the World.

Then, she began to wonder about Alodie. He had been a mystery the first time they met and she still wondered about him...

...and that kiss before they parted...

She groaned in anger, kicking a loose brick beside the wall she looked over, glaring into the fires. The Imperial was a fool, in truth. He worried that she would die-just like his sister she supposed. But she was a Companion-a fighter. And she fought her own battles just as how Alodie fought his own way.

She promised that once she found Aerin, she was coming right after him. Whether he was on that mountain right now or not, she would find him and tell him that she would never let something like that happen to her...

"Lioness," she heard from behind.

She turned and saw Skjor who had taken a sudden interest in her the past week she had returned. After the ceremony, she met with Kodlak and talked to him about the "werewolf" problem. But, all she got were "you will understand soon enough" from the leader and when she kept on asking, he said _nothing_. And then, Skjor would come up to her and ask for a sparing. She would lose every time but every time she felt slightly stronger.

And yet, she was cautious around Skjor-a member of the Circle. She didn't know what he wanted.

She turned around to look towards the mountain.

"What do you want?" she asked, though with slight respect. She truly liked Skjor-even with all the secrets he was probably hiding. He was better than Vilkas who took every moment of the day to mock her.

"I discussed with Aela and she agreed that you are ready," he said. "Follow me."

And without another word, he turned and began to walk away towards the Skyforge. She was curious as to what the old war veteran was talking about, so, she left the wall and followed him not too closely.

"You are suspicious, I know, I was too when I was first indicted. Farkas told us everything and you really leave us no choice," he said. He stopped walking beneath the forge and knocked twice on the stone. He then opened up a small compartment and pulled a lever, the stone suddenly falling into the ground.

Mjoll was puzzled and took a step back.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

Skjor smiled gristly, waving towards the lowering stone door. "The Underforge. Most of the Circle were inducted here, including me and Aela. And now you."

She took another step back.

"Now, wait here just a moment. You want me to join _the Circle_? Do you think I'm stupid?"

He shook his head once the stone door disappeared, looking about the courtyard to make sure no one saw.

"Let us speak of this inside. Aela is growing impatient."

She wondered how he knew that, but followed him anyway into the Underforge. She had no idea what this werewolf wanted from her, but she would make sure he didn't get it.

Inside was dark and clammy-the Underforge was humid from the Skyforge above them whose fires never died. It almost felt as if she was in a volcano with lava pouring at them from the sides.

And there, behind a circular bowl that looked like some sort of witch's ritual podium, was a werewolf with dark burgundy fur and red eyes. She guessed this beast to being Aela.

She took another step back but noticed that the stone door was closing behind her, Skjor pulling at another lever from inside. She was trapped by both of them.

She glared at Skjor. "What is the meaning of this?" she yelled, glancing towards Aela. She thought that she would have been able to trust Skjor but now...she cursed herself for being so foolish.

Skjor walked past her, waving to Aela whose expression was unreadable in her beast form. Though, she didn't _look_ vicious...

"You learned too much for a fledgling, whelp. All of us besides Kodlak talked and this was the solution that we came up with. You, Lioness, will join the Circle. Farkas has told of how you were able to kill the draugr and you exhibit talents that make this solution the only one."

Mjoll glared at Aela who returned the a look that only made her shudder. She didn't want this...she didn't want any of this. Aerin would not stand for it. Alodie would not stand for it. She was meant for Sovngarde...not the hunt...not Hircine...not-

"I do not accept your proposal, Skjor. I don't accept _any _of the Circle's proposals! I don't want to become a beast."

At this, Skjor stopped walking, looking off towards Aela who shook her extra large wolf head. He sighed.

"A 'curse' Kodlak calls it. I had hoped that the old man hadn't gotten to you yet but, I guess he has... Becoming a werewolf is of no dishonor. Most Nords have hunted during the Bloodmoon including some of your own ancestors. Hircine's realm and Sovngarde are both similar in ways. While in Sovngarde they feast for eternity, we will hunt for eternity. Both the same. So, no honor has been lost in the Companions. Only power."

Mjoll shook her head. She couldn't believe her ears. As a little girl, she had dreamed of becoming a Companion and fighting with shield-brothers and sisters. Not _this_. Not becoming a beast that hunted the innocent at night. Not a murderer.

She never traded her sword for _power._ She adventured on her own terms.

She moved her mouth, not knowing what to say. Skjor looked Aela who was beginning to look impatient.

"You have no choice. Tonight, you hunt."

"W-What?" she stuttered, her back hitting the wall. _Marcurio, where is that fetcher?_ Probably off drunk again. She couldn't rely on him for help.

Skjor walked towards werewolf Aela who lifted her claw. He unsheathed his Skyforge steel-like the one that she now had-and cut her hand into the ritual stone, the plinth stained with blood that seemed to come rapidly from her claws. She worried that Aela was hurt but she didn't give off appearances that she was.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly in fear. _Mjoll the Lioness is never afraid_, she thought hurriedly. _She is not afraid of prisons or death or werewolves. _Nothing_._

Or...at least that was what she was trying to convince herself.

The podium suddenly became bright as if a fire was burning beneath. She held her breath as the blood-which filled almost a quarter of the way-swirled and bubbled, glowing green then blue before the dark substance shuddered, then stopped.

She released her breath then, only until Skjor dipped a tankard into the substance that probably wasn't _blood_ anymore. It appeared steaming and when the substance finally cooled, he walked towards her.

"Drink, Mjoll. You have no choice in the matter. Drink and remember who gave you this power."

She shook her head but this only caused Skjor to become angry.

"The Silver-Hand don't consider those who are not in the Circle as innocent. Drink so that you might be protected one day. We look out for each other here. We look out for you."

She shook her head again. "I don't desire this. Please..."

As she spoke, Skjor shoved the tankard up to her mouth and her eyes widened as the hot substance dripped into her mouth. She kicked at Skjor but she had never been able to hurt Skjor before. She tried not to swallow but it was so hot that she had to and her gray eyes soon started to burn as Skjor continued to pour.

It only stopped when there was none left and the coppery taste burned her insides. Falling to her knees, weak from shock, her body began to feel strange to her. Her heavy breathing echoed inside her head and her eyesight grew blurred with red. She soon felt as if she didn't know where she was-where was her head? Her hands? Her feet?

Her bones began to ache and a hunger began to ripple over her that seemed to have no end. She smelt blood from Aela that reminded her of her father's hunting. The dead elk that he would bring home after a long day's ride. Her father had wanted her to be a hunter. Like him. Like her brother...

And now she was. Now...she was.

* * *

Windhelm was always quiet in the night, Ulfric noticed, and it always reminded him of that split second before battle. The Great War was a tragedy unlike any other that he remembered, and at nights-after the nightmares-he would stand in the war room and ponder.

Galmar had returned yesterday with the news. Half of his army had been killed by the Imperials when he led a strike against them near the border between Whiterun and Eastmarch. Fortunately, he was able to route towards the Whiterun camp they had stationed and return with the same amount that they had when they left.

The crown, however, was lost.

He had not known that the Imperials knew of the crown, but he figured that Legate Rikke had told the arrogant General. And what Ulfric wanted, General Tullius sought to take from him.

The team he sent returned with only three men strong. Their wounds were healed by the priests but many of them thought that they failed Ulfric.

He knew that it wasn't the team that he sent. It was the Imperial bastards that killed all of them.

He was so angered that he could not sleep. And once he slept, he dreamt of the dragon again. Alduin. The dragon ruled over nightmares it seemed...over and over it said to beware the Dragonborn. To not trust the words of Akatosh. The images of the war then tore his mind apart. The dragon was torturing him it seemed...

But, Ulfric started this war with Talos in mind. The Dragonborn would have his trust, no matter who or what he was.

If only Ralof would return...

Suddenly, he heard the front doors to the Palace open, the cold winds of the snowstorm entering as loud as his shout. He felt a tug...of _something_. A power he only felt a few times before.

He shrugged on chainmail and put on his furs. Whoever had entered was not to be trifled with, he knew. With one final glance outside, he walked out of the war room with dread.

The hall was always empty-the Thanes were too busy gaining the favor of the holds they had and the clans were either in mourning or war. Otherwise, the cook only had a few mouths to feed here.

The guards had closed the door behind two figures, one was Ralof who he had sent weeks ago. Another seemed familiar though he couldn't put a name to the hooded face. Both looked freezing and each had snow piled onto them that melted as soon as they stepped inside.

"J-Jarl Ulfric, you're up! I hadn't expected..."

He raised a hand to Ralof as he walked to his throne with slow, tired steps, sitting down. He kept his eyes on the hooded stranger that stood behind Ralof and realized that the power had come from him.

He wished that his steward was up to advise him on this. He bent over his knees, placing a thoughtful hand on his chin.

"Why are you back, Ralof?" he asked. "Have you delivered the axe?"

The soldier walked forward, followed slowly behind by the suspicious figure. Ralof went to his knees and bowed while the figure remained up. _Defiant I see..._he observed.

"Yes, the Dragonborn has accepted the axe and your friendship, Jarl Ulfric."

_Dragonborn..._

He raised his thick eyebrows, pointing with the hand that rested on his chin.

"And...who is this?" he asked.

The figure stepped forward, his gloved hands raising to take off his hood-the snow falling to the ground. Before him was an Imperial and he immediately began to suspect the dark-haired man. He stepped forward, past Ralof.

"My name is Alodie," he simply said.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes, glancing towards Ralof with suspicion. Why did he bring him this man? He couldn't have been Dragonborn...he was not a Nord...he had a Nordic _name_-a total disgrace-but...?

He huffed. "Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without respect." It was only when he peered deeper into his eyes was he beginning to wonder... "Do I...know you?" he asked.

"I believe we have already met," said this Alodie. Alodie...where had he heard this name?

Oh. "Ah, yes... you were with us at Helgan. Destined for the chopping block if I'm not mistaken."

Ralof stood up then, smirking, "He's destined for so much more now, Jarl Ulfric."

_No...this is-?_

The man reveled his axe underneath his cloak and he knew immediately that the prisoner who's destiny was to be a headless corpse was now _Dragonborn_. He wondered what Talos...what Akatosh...what _the gods_ were thinking, giving the Thu'um to this criminal. To an _Imperial._

His thoughts suspected a spy but then he remembered that slight tug of power when he entered. And the axe that he accepted.

He sat up. "Really? You're _Dragonborn_? I'm sorry, Ralof, but I find this hard to believe." The soldier frowned, the two catching each other's eyes, then he took a step forward.

"I met him on the steps below High Hrothgar, my Jarl. Who else would it be? He was there at Helgan. He would have known nothing about Skyrim before he came here, so why would he be at Ivarstead?"

He glanced towards Alodie whose face was forever encased in stone. He looked like a killer. An assassin. A criminal. He didn't look like one he could trust.

He sighed, allowing his back to touch the stone throne. "I don't trust you," he said.

The man with fiery eyes looked as if he was going to speak, however, he was interrupted. The doors behind them were shoved open quickly and a few guards poured into the room. Outside, the sky was burning like the dawn.

"A dragon, my Jarl! A dragon is attacking the city!" yelled the short guard, his hands shaking with fear. The Jarl stood but the Imperial that had once defiantly stood before him ran towards the open door, shoving the guard aside.

His eyes widened. "Go get Galmar, soldier. Quickly," he ordered, rushing towards the war room. Grabbing his sword, he rushed out into the snowstorm, torches being the only source of light in the darkness.

And there stood Alodie watching for the dragon...

* * *

Alodie hadn't expected a better opportunity. This Jarl suspected him but now that a dragon was attacking this city, he had a chance to prove to the Jarl of his merit.

Part of the city was burning-the people were all running in fear along with the guards. Most of Windhelm was made of stone, so it proved useful to most of the city, but below in what what he had heard from Ralof as "the Grey Quarter" was made of shacks and tinder. And most of it was alight.

He spotted the dragon immediately, circling the large city like a hawk. He unsheathed his steel sword and knife, preparing to use the knowledge from the Greybeards to help him. Some people were being herded into the Palace of Kings since all of it was made of stone while the gates to the city were left open to let the poor traveler in to escape the beast.

He felt a presence beside him and looked to see Ulfric Stormcloak with his own weapon-a dark sword, probably ebony. The Jarl glared at him for only a brief second before the dragon dropped down, smashing the few Stormcloaks and civilians underneath it's claws.

"**Werid do Bexahraanaus, joorre**," it roared, spitting fire. "**Hon fin thu'um se dov!**"

Alodie's eyes widened when he realized it was going to shout fire at him and quickly dodged to the side next to the marker of Ysgramor. The blast ripped out windows and doors of the Palace of Kings and the ones caught in the blast were roasted. The dragon laughed and took flight, it's path being followed by arrows.

"Talos save us..." he heard a guard mutter underneath his breath.

_Talos wasn't going to save anyone unless someone killed that dragon_. Another man-he looked rather familiar-exited and ran to Ulfric, his axe out.

"Let us kill the bastard, Ulfric. Just like old times!" the blond bearded man yelled, slapping the Jarl in the back. He was returned with a apathetic stare.

"This is no time for games, Galmar. A dragon is burning the city down."

Alodie returned his eyes to the dragon which had landed on top of the wall, chomping it's mouth down onto the guards posted up there. He swallowed hard then began to run towards it.

He rarely used the Thu'um. He knew that it would give him unwanted attention. But he _needed_ the dragon's attention. He needed it to stop killing people and let it focus on him.

Once he thought himself close enough, he let rip "_fus ro_" into the sky and directly onto the dragon, startling the guards that stood beside him. The dragon stopped killing the men on the wall and instead looked down upon the mortal below.

It then laughed and took flight, right back towards the Palace. The guards around gave him wondrous and ponderous looks but he ignored them all as he ran past the inn and towards the Palace. It was in his blood to kill dragons, the Greybeards had told him. He couldn't resist the urge to hunt them down. He could never turn his back and run. He always fought and hunted.

The Greybeards had warned him about this as well.

Once he got back to the dragon, Galmar-the familiar looking one-had thrown his axe into the dragon's maw. It roared in anger and flew low to the ground. Towards him. He sighed and wondered why he always seemed to get in the middle of the fighting.

He couldn't dodge the massive beast as it flew low, injured from the axe, and was slapped by the massive wing, its sharp edge cutting his leathers. Ignoring pain, he was able slash at the fragile right wing, blood pouring from where he made a deep cut.

The dragon roared again and it smashed into the wall. Alodie breathed in deeply, realizing his injury wasn't bad, and sighed in relief. It wouldn't be able to fly away now. They had it!

That didn't stop its anger, however.

"**_Hio pahl mey!_**" it roared in the dragon language, its maw leaking with blood. Alodie didn't stop, his instinct told him to not stop until the beast was dead. As if its soul was calling to him.

A guard, seeing the easy prey, charged at the dragon only to be interrupted by the bloody teeth of the monster. Once the Nord's head was gone, the body collapsed and the dragon began to slowly crawl towards him.

He caught a glimpse of Ulfric and Galmar raising their weapons in preparation and when the dragon let out another burst of fire, Alodie dashed to the side again, rolling towards the beast. It turned it's head, trying to follow the Imperial but unsuccessfully aimed for Ulfric and Galmar instead. The two were able to duck along with other guards while some were not as successful.

The dragon roared again when Alodie grabbed it's horn and buried his sword into its skull. The yellow eyes widened into what Alodie believed to be fear and for a second he almost thought he saw his reflection within that eye before it dimmed. It made one last swipe at him, though weak, and its claw buried into his leg. Alodie grunted in pain and released the electric sword, the body finally collapsing.

The Imperial collapsed along with it, sweat pouring down his body, his lower right leg burning with pain. He never really armored his legs and cursed himself for not doing so.

The dragon was down, the second one he was able to defeat. There were many more coming, of course. He heard cries of surprise again for the second time and the light from the burning dragon blinded him, his eyes growing blurry from the soul.

The same feeling from before was felt as the fires rushed towards him from all directions, his eyesight growing even more unreliable. He turned to try and look behind him and tried to stand but the pain in his right leg was too much to even hold his body. He thought that he heard unbelieving shouts of surprise though...along with a few who dropped their weapons.

Including Ulfric Stormcloak...

When the fires died down, his hearing and eyesight restored although his injury wasn't, he tried to stand. His chest was still burning from the dragon's wing swiping him so he tried to heal his leg. However, he couldn't think clearly and was only able to stop the bleeding shortly.

He collapsed onto his hands and he heard the crunching of snow behind him along with a call to get a healer. He hadn't really realized how much the dragon had actually injured his chest and he felt that his eyesight was growing blurred once again.

The set of footsteps stopped. He then heard a slight chuckle.

"Not bad, Dragonborn. Not bad..."

It had been Ulfric. _He believes me now, huh?_

Before he collapsed from the blood loss, he heard one final voice.

"Hey, it was by my axe that it went in his direction in the first place. That dragon would have been dead if I had finished-"

Then, all went dark.

* * *

******Werid do Bexahraanaus, joorre- Bow before Bexahraanaus (Open Wound Suffer), mortals!**

******Hon fin thu'um se dov!-Hear the Voice of the dragons!**

******Hio pahl mey!-You arrogant fool!**

**As you can guess already, my version of the Civil War will be different than the game's. To me, that was what the game was really lacking-politics and schemes. Sure, I battled like five or ten Stormcloaks per fort but there was never any depth to the _war_. Oh how I love the loss of limitations in writing! **

**So, expect surprises and twists in every part of my story.**

**Don't forget to favorite and review!**

_Hinode~Dawn_


	5. Stormblade

**One of Destiny**

* * *

_"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond...even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms._

_All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!_"

The Stormcloak's Oath

* * *

**Chapter Four: Stormblade**

Oaths were a flexible thing to him. His oath to the Empire had been broken only years after and his own personal oath to protect his sister had been broken along with it. What were words if they were only meant to be broken?

Why did he join the Oculatius? He never _wanted_ to be a part of the spy group and yet...

"Light or heavy armor, initiate?" asked the Orc blacksmith, the soot smudged over his face. It only took him a few seconds to decide light and the red and silver hooded armor was all his. It was..._strange_...brand new. And yet, he felt wrong at the same time. Like he was betraying someone.

He felt a poke on his back and he turned to see a black furred Khajiit, eyeing him with humor.

"You the thief they caught down near Dragon's Way? Heh, you're a fighting spirit if what I heard from my friends is true."

He glared at her with his eagle like eyes and began to walk away from the Imperial soldier's forge. It seemed as if the word about him had spread already-ha, he had actually _hoped_ to avoid any nasty rumors. He knew he should have chosen the cell...

He still heard footsteps behind him.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, Imperial. All spies are misfits one way or another. Me, I came from the great purge in Elsweyr. Of course...no one seems to be talking about _that_."

He wanted this Khajiit to leave him alone and yet he still hadn't turned around to tell her so. He was told that after he got his armor, he was supposed to report to his commanding officer, Intendent Gauis Maro, the son of Commander Maro, so he headed toward the Pentius Oculatius' tower past shops and guilds.

As soon as he joined a week ago, the Oculatius had begun teaching him how to read and write letters. Since, being a spy of course, the skill was required, he was having a difficult time learning something that most of the rich and well off already knew. Fortunately, since the week of his induction and oath, the lessons were getting easier and easier each day.

He still did not really understand why they even took him in the first place. Thieves hands were cut off if old Pike that lived down near him and his sister in the Waterfront was any example. Thieves weren't made into _spies._

"I heard that you ran from the guards all night and day and that they had to get the _Oculatius _after your hide. And even _then_ it was hard to find you. Heh, heh, you're lucky that you impressed them so much."

"Go away," he muttered, walking up the steps to the tower walls. One of the things he learned about the spy organization was that the tower they now resided in used to belong to the Mage's Guild. Of course, after the split, the Synod went off to the Temple of the One to set up camp while the College of Whispers went off into the woods near Water's Edge and spoke to daedra. Both were not warmly accepted by the people.

The annoying Khajiit sighed then grabbed his shoulders with her arm in a forceful half hug.

"You are too serious...what was you're name?"

He glowered, shoving her arm. "Alodie."

"Alodie. Yes, you probably shouldn't take this so seriously. The Pentius Oculatius is a sect of spies and assassins, yes, but most of the time we just guard and watch." She was smiling at him with exposed fangs and patted him warmly on the shoulder. He didn't really know what to say.

"You tried to steal from the mages, I here. Pretty stupid...but it sounds like you got rather close. Also heard you were an arrogant sot-"

"Shut up," was what he said to silence the kitten. They walked past a few other agents who were giving him a suspicious eye. He only glared back at them, daring the three to say anything. They walked past, snickering.

The Khajiit shook her head as she saw them, returning her eyes to him.

"You might want to shape up your character, initiate. Too many agents are from high backgrounds and are so bored that they take the time to mess with newcomers like you. And you look easy to mess with. Just so that you're warned."

Then, with a final pat on his shoulder, she walked away-tail trailing behind her. He glared after her leaving figure but still kept himself alert. What that Khajiit had said was just something to scare him. Nothing more.

He lived to regret those thoughts.

* * *

"So, Alodie was your name?"

That Khajiit _would not_ stop bothering him. It was starting to get on his nerves.

After getting his daily slop from the kitchens, he filed away into the mess hall with a small smirk. No matter how disgusting it looked and was, it was better than the nothing he used to have. Before he was able to sit down in his normal corner, the Khajiit sat in front of him. He hovered above the seat, steaming like the mush.

"Was your father a Nord or something? I mean, your mother had to be Imperial with what you are..."

He began to scan the mess hall for another seat before realizing that he had truly separated himself from everyone. There was barely anymore room left without sitting by at least _someone._ He sighed and took a seat.

"I don't know. And I wouldn't tell you anyway," he responded, looking into the mush soup.

The Khajiit purred her laughter.

"Ah...you keep secrets from spies. How funny!"

He didn't really see how funny it was... He scooped up some of the disgusting soup and flung it into his mouth fast. As soon as he was done, he promised, he would _leave_.

Unfortunately, the Khajiit noticed. "I heard you were a fast one, Alodie, but I didn't know that you digested at a rapid pace as well!"

He glared at her. "Just. Go. _Away_..."

"Quill. Since you've seemed to have forgotten to ask me for my name."

He didn't really care about her stupid name. He didn't really understand why she was named after a writing device made of hawk feathers either. It didn't _sound _ like the normal Khajiit names he's heard down at the docks.

This Quill was good at reading thoughts as well. So much so that it was starting to get scary...

"Yes, I don't have the weird 'blahblah-K' or 'blah-j-blah' and such. It's what makes me charming, don't you agree?"

He made a quick laugh at that, scooping the last remnants of the soup. What made this Quill charming was her inability to shut up half the time.

As he started to get up in order to return the mush bowl-Quill following stubbornly as always-he suddenly found himself not on his feet. After stumbling, he realized that one of the other initiates-this one looked a bit younger than him-had tried to trip him as he got up. He stopped before the young boy then, glaring at him with a rage.

The other initiate was snickering with his friends-different agents and members. He tried to cool his head, to stop himself from going after him with his fist, however, what he said next...

"So, you're the thief with the whore living in his basement?"

All Alodie saw was red as he dove for the initiate, punching the man's face in while grabbing the younger man's neck, forcing them both to the ground, dragging chairs down with them. The chatter around them was completely washed out as he began suffocating the younger recruit that, suddenly, didn't look so confident.

Unfortunately, he had been so enraged that he hadn't noticed a fist headed directly towards his face. Seeing black and feeling some teeth coming loose, he released the young Imperial from his death grip and backed off. Feeling a little bit more confident, the younger recruit kneed him in the abdomen hard. Although he looked and acted younger, the Imperial was much more muscular and bigger than he was.

Feeling the wind being kicked out of him, he was suddenly thrown off of the recruit with both of his hands and he crashed directly into his friends. He tried to escape their grasp before realizing that they had thrown him back into the small ring they had formed.

"Are you mad?" he yelled from the ground.

He was going to kill this bastard. He promised that he would protect Eiruki from anything. Death, rape, slander...and these brutes had all but spit at his _honor._

So, he went for the lad again, only this time in larger force. He vaguely remembered the fight...the pain in his ribs and the sweat that was pouring down his back, but, soon enough, he saw the knife in the palm of his hand. Before the weapon could descend and kill this younger man, two sharp claws grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back from the wall.

It was as if a shade had been pulled from his eyes when he met Quill's yellow ones. His mush bowl was on the floor, the table and chairs were all scattered along with meat chunks and gravy. Swords were unsheathed.

The younger recruit was staring at him with wild eyes, his mouth moving up and down. Alodie looked down at his hand and saw the knife that every agent was given and dropped it as soon as it caught the light.

He swallowed deeply. He would go to the Imperial prisons for sure. No, he would be executed for this. This wasn't what a Pentius Oculatius agent did. Spies don't kill other spies. Just as how thieves don't kill other thieves. When had he become so blinded with rage? When had it started?

He barely found a chair as he suddenly became light headed. And yet...Quill was still gazing towards him patiently...as if...what? What did she want from him?

She coughed once.

"Thank you so much!" she suddenly exclaimed. She hugged him with both arms around him, causing him to look past her shoulder in mild confusion. "These racist brutes tried to beat me! I swear, if you hadn't tried to help me..."

The other spies around them were looking at both of them with mixed expressions. Some-like the younger initiates friends- still had swords unsheathed, while others pondered at the apparently racist initiate.

"I-No he-it was _him_ that started it! I-she wasn't even-!"

The stuttering wasn't really helping his case. Alodie noticed the strange stare Quill was giving the other three-a stare that told Alodie she had _something _on them. Suddenly, he knew what she was trying to do.

He looked her straight in the eyes.

"No...no problem...that bigot wounded me a bit...nothing I can't fix though."

Quill returned his stare and nodded, smirking slyly.

"You didn't have to threaten him with a knife though! And in front of everyone! You might be a new recruit, Alodie, but you need to use that sort of brute persuasion in the field, not in the mess hall." With a fond laugh and a pat on his shoulder, she released him from the hug, eyeing the young bully. "As for him...I don't think he'll be needing a knife in the throat for where _I_ would send him."

It was then that most of the spies had backed off-some were going to tell an Intendent-while the young bully's friends were quickly taking the Imperial "racist" away, leaving the room mostly empty.

Suddenly, Alodie was ripped off of his feet and they were outside in the courtyard. He was still dazed from the fight that he hadn't expected the rapid motion. Quill stopped running then and slammed him against the outside wall in an alley beside the barracks.

"How _stupid_ are you, Alodie? Are you so blindly hot-headed to attack someone in plain view? You're lucky that I have friends in high places, else your head would've been on a pike the next morning. I swear...you Imperials..."

He looked down at his feet, rubbing off dried blood from his mouth and attempted to use his newly learned healing spell from the other day. He was largely unsuccessful.

"What was all of that about in there? I didn't ask for your help."

Quill huffed, gazing outside of the alleyway.

"Well, maybe you should start asking for some. Sometimes, you have to make face to the people you loath in order to succeed. After all, they're all in it for themselves. You are in for yourself, I'm in this for myself-heh, even the gods are in it for themselves no matter how many times the priests say that the eight or nine or whatever bless us all. I was brought here no poorer than yourself. My family was killed by Imperial soldiers because they were thought to be spies. You think _I _should go and beat up the Empire for that? By myself? That is what I am saying, Alodie. Senseless. _Violence_."

His breathing had all but quieted then and now he was staring deeply in Quill's direction. She was right...by the gods...she was _right._ What had he been doing for the past years he'd been alive? Protecting Eiruki and fighting all who would think to insult or hurt her.

Why did he join the Oculatius? Because he wanted to have another chance. He wanted to prove them all wrong. He wanted..._vengeance _in a way.

He stepped away from the stone wall.

"Then...what would you have me do?" he asked.

She paused before turning around. Her white teeth were shining, even in the darkness of the alleyway.

"Do?" she chuckled lightly, then as she walked away, "Destroy them from the inside, Alodie. Destroy them from the inside."

He hadn't known exactly what she had meant then, and even after she left him in that alleyway confused, he _still_ didn't know. That was before she led him to Motierre. Before his fall began...

_Mjoll was suddenly there. He was confused, puzzled as to why she would be in his memory before she suddenly screamed. He took a step back inside the alleyway, horrified at her pain and anguish. She was reaching out to him with a long hand, a clawed black hand that cracked as it extended. _

_"Alodie!" she screamed. However, her screams turned to roars as long fangs replaced teeth and blood flowed down from her dark maw. He realized that she had turned into a gigantic beast and attacked him-hungry. His eyes widened in terror and he made to run and yet was frozen._

_She swiped his chest and the pain was running down his body in intense waves. Where there should have been blood was a dark pussy liquid. He didn't remember a sword being in his hands, but the liquid had been from Mjoll and the sword cut through what was once his...friend. She roared. She screamed._

_He was horrified as Mjoll was suddenly human again, his sword through her naked body. He hadn't realized, but the tears were flowing down his eyes like hot fire._

_"I thought...I loved you..." she said._

_Suddenly, her face was replaced with his sister's. He was even more horrified._

_"I thought I loved you!" she yelled at him. _

_The fires then consumed her. Rue screamed in hatred. Screamed in pain. Her body turned black, her skull was hollow-her once innocent light brown hair was tinder. And still, her body screamed until she turned to ashes and the wind took her away._

I thought I loved you..._she had said that to him when she found out his betrayal. They were the last words he heard coming from Eiruki's lips. _

I thought I loved you.

* * *

He felt a dull pain in both his chest and leg when he awoke, his mind still chilled from the nightmare. He was still breathing heavily, the sound of his heart echoing inside his head. The ceiling was high above him, like a chapel? He was in a chapel. He moved his head to see a working priest in orange robes attending to the man beside him-a Stormcloak soldier?

Suddenly, he remembered the battle with the dragon the night before and he started to sit up, only to attract the priest beside him.

"Not so fast, Stormblade. The healing potion hasn't finished going through your system."

His voice sounded worn and cracked.

"Stormblade?"

This priest smiled warmly at him like he was a child, lifting the blanket to check the bandages around his chest, then pressing him back down onto the bed only for him to bounce back slightly.

"Yes...it seems to be working. You were lucky that dragon's wing hadn't cut you deeper. Funny since you acted as though you couldn't feel a thing. Stormblade...Dragonborn. You've really increased the morale in the men lately."

She had the look of experience. As if she had done this sort of thing so many times before. He looked over to the other beds beside him and realized that most were there with dismembered arms and legs. He worried that he had taken too much of this priest's time.

"Stormblade...why are you calling me that?" he asked.

The priest laughed, returning her attention to the Nord laying beside him.

"You have heard of Talos 'Stormcrown,' yes? You Imperials call him Tiber Septim but us Nords have always called him by his true name." She finished wrapping the white cloth around the Nord's stub and sighed. "The men have been calling you Stormblade in honor of Stormcrown. In honor of the Dragonborn. I mean, it only fits with the the voice you carried and the weapon you wielded."

He took a quick look around and noticed that his sword was gone along with his leathers. He began to grow worried until the priest healer looked at him again.

"Your armor was completely ripped apart so it was sent to a blacksmith. Your sword became...uncontrolled."

He furrowed his brow in confusion.

"'Uncontrolled?'"

The healer nodded, heading over to a washing bin that sat on the table beside the beds. She looked mildly surprised herself as she washed her hands of blood with the washcloth.

"When a soldier tried to pick it up, it exploded in electricity. The man suffered minor burns but the Jarl ordered the court wizard to take care of it. However, even the mage couldn't figure out what was wrong. Said the magicka infused with the soul ruby or gem or whatever went haywire. I wouldn't know for sure, I only know potions and not spells and necromancy, but I have a feeling that it's gone now."

He remembered getting that sword from a Thalmor Judiciary that tried attacking Mjoll and shook slightly in fear. What type of dangerous weapon had he been wielding this whole time? What if it had exploded in his hands while he was fighting?

Well, he would have been dead.

He shook his head in amazement of the Thalmor's paranoia and sat back. He remembered the horrifying dream...of Mjoll. Never before had she appeared in his dreams and yet she did...in the form of a wild beast.

He began to worry. Had he done what was for the best? For all of them? For Marcurio? For Aerin? ...For Mjoll? Though, he might never see Mjoll or Aerin or that stupid mage again. And that was what made him worry.

"The Jarl wanted to see you as soon as you were on your feet. But, apparently, it seems like you'll have trouble even walk-"

He groaned as he shoved his wounded leg to the side of the bed, sheets falling to the floor. The priest frown, stepping away from the washing bin and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You really shouldn't-"

"I'll go see him now."

Then, he tried to stand, however, his right foot gave in as soon as he tried. He grunted more in anger than pain and sat back down, looking at his bundled leg as if it was the enemy of all Tamriel.

"Your leg has been slow to heal, Stormblade."

He glared at her then. "Don't call me that," he muttered low enough for only a skeever to hear. It reminded him too much about this stupid Civil War. Too much about Ulfric _Stormcloak_.

And at that, the priestess sucked in a nervous breath before shaking her head in misunderstanding. But she didn't comment on it further and instead looked at his leg injury caused by the beast's massive claw.

"You might be able to stand at least by tomorrow. But, otherwise, travel isn't going to be an option for you, at least not right now."

And so, he had no choice but to relax, defeated under the hands of the older priest. Fortunately, before he could lay down again in the cot, he eyed a walking forked stick beside one of the legless soldier's bed. He pointed.

"I'm talking to Stormcloak. _Now._ We have some things that we need to clear up."

She eyed the walking stick then sighed, shaking her head, muttering, "_Men."_

* * *

Limping down the hall with fresh clothes, past wounded soldiers whose eyes shined as they saw him, Alodie made his way in the makeshift healing camp created inside a Talos shrine. The massive armored statue of Tiber Septim crushing a snake made him feel as if he was in a different time. A time before the persecution of the man-god.

The people that sat in the few pews left-since they had to shove most aside-were sitting in prayer. Praying for hope, for courage, maybe for better crops, he wasn't sure and didn't want to know. He wondered back to his father again and shrugged the old feeling aside. This wasn't the time.

He was helped at the door by two very eager soldiers who wanted to shake his hand, badly. As soon as the door was opened, he limped as fast as he could away from his two new found idols. Before he left of course, he prayed that he wouldn't get ambushed.

Fortunately, he wasn't.

_Unfortunately_, the city was. Ambushed by ashes and smoke.

The sun was high in the sky, noon of the next day or two days...he wasn't sure. He forgot to ask the priestess. The dragon bones still blocked the path to the Palace of Kings as if it was supposed to be a warning to all that were to come. Smoke came from the east down towards what used to be the Grey Quarter. It was now ashes and more ashes. All the Dark Elves seemed to find were ashes no matter where they went.

There had been a few people behind him carrying the ones who didn't make it and were heading towards the west-the Arkay cemetery. More holes would be dug tonight.

What he was mostly interested in was the Palace. He limped in that direction, past curious eyes of working men and homeless children. Most of the workers were Nords. Most of the children were Dunmer. He didn't smile back at them as the guards helped him with the doors _again_. He hated being such a burden.

The blue clothed and bear faced room was filled with people all sitting about a table eating. All was silent as he entered and he could feel as he shuddered the daggers in each and every _one_ of the Nord noble's eyes. He began to wish for his nightmare again...

There they were, feasting while the poor and injured suffered. _They aren't much different from the Empire now, are they?_

"Jarl Ulfric, the Dunmer are all suffering down there. The Grey Quarter was burnt to the ground and you aren't doing _anything_ to help them! What type of Jarl ignores his people?"

The Nord warrior's voice echoed, the anger tempting to break the glass windows. Ulfric sat at the end of the table, glaring at the Nord warrior with dangerous eyes and bristled like a bear.

"They are _not _my people, Brunwulf. They take but do not work. They cower but do not fight. If they wanted help, they would have accepted the Nord way a long time ago. They will rebuild on their own but we are not going to do it for them."

The warrior, Brunwulf, grew in rage but before he could even do or say anything else, he turned around and stormed out. He paused as he saw Alodie standing there and sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder before exiting.

He wondered what the warrior had meant by doing that.

Alodie limped forward, trying to avoid eyes but failed, and headed towards Ulfric. The dark eyes that he remembered were giving him a confused stare. The "High King" placed down his cup of mead that had been at his lips after that dispute and he realized that he was smirking.

Alodie frowned. "You wanted to see me?"

The nobles and Thanes were all giving him scoffed looks...as if he had brought a dagger to Ulfric's throat. The Jarl himself sat back in the soft cushioned seat, that smirk still on his face.

"When you were back on your feet, yes. But now, since you are, sit."

Apparently, the seat beside the Jarl was empty and Alodie wondered if it used to be Brunwulf's but paid no heed, sitting down slowly, placing his walking stick beside the table. The Jarl was still smirking at him as he filled Alodie's empty cup with mead. The Dragonborn, however, didn't touch it.

The Thanes began to eat again but all were eyeing him with worry. He was puzzled as to why the nobles treated him with fear while the soldiers and poor treated him like Talos reborn.

He saw Ralof sitting at the table as well beside the blond bearded man, Galmar, he had heard from the battle. He was laughing and stuffing a pork leg into his mouth.

"I saw this one on the road I did, Ulfric! I didn't want to tell you in fear that you might have taken it badly, but it seems that the lad has joined the right side!"

At this, Alodie narrowed his eyes yet stayed quiet. He didn't want to anger these Nords right now, not when he was still injured. One of the things the Pentius Oculatius and Motierre- unfortunately -had taught him was to strike when they least expected it. And right now, as he was being eyed by many suspicious Nords, was not the time.

The Jarl laughed. "Right side indeed. Tell me, Stormblade, why did you come here? Aren't you an Imperial? You were at Helgan, yes, but was there any other reason?"

He couldn't avoid the question- that or Ulfric didn't trust him. And it was smart for him not to trust the ex-spy. He didn't even trust himself. Fortunately, the Oculatius taught him more than just fighting.

"Don't call me Stormblade. I haven't done anything of merit yet," he said, grabbing the cup but not lifting it. He diverted the topic quickly to Ulfric's pride. And he could see that the man was prideful. A bit too much so...

Ulfric sighed. "But you will. As Dragonborn, much is expected of you. After you consumed that dragon's soul, the people have been calling you Stormblade just as the people called me Stormcloak."

"Yet you wear it like a badge of honor in this war," he replied, lifting the cup.

The Jarl smirked. "Honor is earned, Stormblade. I earned that name during the Great War and the people came to calling me Stormcloak after the Markarth Incident. Where do you stand? You accepted the axe, so have you decided to pledge my claim?"

Alodie then drank the mead, the warm substance distracting him from his other problems. Like Ulfric. Who did he think he was, a blind Nord subject like his other soldiers? This man expected his obedience when he hadn't earned any of it. When he arrived in the throne room, he didn't command. He expected to be obeyed. To be bowed to. And to Alodie, that was not a true leader. He was just about as weak as Mercer's grip on the Thieves Guild. Just as weak as Maro was to Motierre and the other defectors...to him.

After draining half of the cup, he placed it down a little bit. He hated lying, strange since he did it for a living, so he only looked down into the mead.

"I stand on the side of the people." A generic response, but he figured that with Ulfric's big ego, he would see the "people" as the Nords. He bit his next words though."As do you."

Galmar was laughing in his cups, the ale spilling onto his beard, staining it red.

"Leave the boy alone, Ulfric. Right now, we need to celebrate the death of a dragon!" Ulfric turned his suspicious eyes away from Alodie to smirk at Galmar.

"We haven't won the war yet, Galmar," he reminded his General.

Galmar, however, wasn't one to really listen to his Jarl, no matter how much he profused to following him.

"You know, I would have killed it myself if it hadn't gone blundering into you, Stormblade! Ah...then maybe _I_ would have been in Ulfric's favor. This brute already can't stand me as it is."

Ulfric laughed at Galmar then, shaking his head.

"You've always been an annoying bastard. Though, you might still be in for _some _glory, my friend."

They both drank then, laughing and coughing. Alodie was glad that they seemed to ignore him now, so, he got up slowly from his seat. While they drank, Ulfric noticed the movement and called over a servant.

"Lead the Dragonborn to his quarters. His stay should be long."

"I will not be resting here for long. I am leaving as soon as I can walk," Alodie replied, answering towards the servant. She was minorly confused and Ulfric's thick eyebrows bunched up.

"Leaving? To _where_?"

Alodie grabbed the walking stick and turned around to face Ulfric, looking down at him.

"The Greybeards sent me on a mission to retrieve something. I intend to do that."

Alodie was shaken when Ulfric stood up from his seat, his eyes seemingly to grow angry at the very mention of Greybeards. His fist was planted upon the table.

"The Horn of Jurgan Windcaller? That is a waste of your time in a war that doesn't wait for opponents to strike. We need you here, Stormblade, not out in the wilderness running errands for those old men. Here, you can do a lot more good than out there."

Alodie narrowed his eyes before limping closer to the Jarl, his dark eyes brightening slightly. The soldiers and Thanes behind him started to grow uneasy, some placing there hands onto their gem pommeled knives.

He took in a deep breath before speaking lowly. "While I sit here drinking and eating, _Jarl_, I waste time looking for a way to get rid of these dragons. While I sleep and go to war, _Jarl,_ I waste time following the Greybeards directions and gaining their support. What would you have me do?" He grew even closer to the Jarl whose face had grown slightly red. "Play at war? Pretend to ignore what is destroying us from the inside?" He took a limped step back though his eyes still met the Jarl's. "No. I may not have a choice, but I know what is better in the end for all of us."

As he walked past the Jarl, following the nervous servant, he heard a loud thunderclap absent of rain and light. Most of the candles were blown out by the force of the shout and the servant had been blown back into the wall by the force.

And only he was the one left standing. The shout that Ulfric had sent in his direction only felt like a fierce gust of wind but no more. Had he gotten more resistant against the voice than he thought? Maybe the Greybeard's patience had truly taught him...something?

He turned around and saw the shocked and red face of the Jarl whose ego had been broken. He pointed a dagger like finger at the Dragonborn.

"You accepted my axe, _Imperial_. You accepted my leadership. Why are you backing out now?" he shouted. "Why go against your honor and oath so quickly?"

Everyone was silent as they waited for the voice of the Jarl to stop echoing within the hall. Alodie shook his head as if he was disappointed in Ulfric. And he was. He thought, for a split second, that they would have been better than the Empire. he was foolish, however, to believe in a perfect governing body.

"You can't make oaths to oath-breakers, _Stormcloak_." He turned away from the Jarl and began to head in the direction the confused servant had begun to lead him towards. They wouldn't kill him. Ulfric and all of them had seen why he was important. And he was going to stay here until he left. Unlike Ulfric, Alodie commanded respect instead of expected it. Maybe the spoiled Jarl would learn something from this? _Probably not,_ he thought.

And he had the dragon to thank for.

A_gain_.

* * *

The hunger was getting to him. The Silver Hand had insisted he eat the flesh of the werewolf but he had refused and ate the bread that they gave along with it. He was slowly starving himself out of spite.

Krev the Skinner wanted him to state the barbarian as the true leader of the Silver Hand. The clan had been separated across all of Skyrim naming different leaders after his father was denounced and banished. He had only been a baby so he had no clue what truly happened. Apparently, his word truly did matter to the Silver Hand. Somehow. Even after all of the back talk. He wouldn't have been alive otherwise.

He wondered why.

Aerin planned to escape some days, maybe he would release one of the starved werewolves they tortured to distract them from his escape. However, he came here to settle his problems, not create more.

His problems, however, would never stop coming towards him.

A familiar looking Nord smashed into the main hall of the fort they resided in. His baldness and his scars looked a lot like that Companion he saw before. Skjor had been his name. Aerin shrunk back into his chair. His table to the right of the massive hall was his sanctuary all day, minus the brute thugs glaring at him like he was some sort of pet.

Behind Skjor were dozens of other Silver Hand brutes, many of which Skjor grunted at. The Skinner-who sat in his own fur-stitched throne, raised an eyebrow at the spectacle. The black fur cloaked man nodded towards the intruder causing most of the Silver Hand warriors to stop going on the attack.

He stood up, clapping.

"Bravo, Companion, bravo. You found our hideout. You beasts were looking high and low for us, I'm sure. Trying to find the fragments that we broke from Wuuthraad such a long time ago? Ha, ha, well, I have none. Only furs and pelts from your brothers and sisters of Hircine. We warned you, beasts, but you didn't heed. So, we taught your future generations the price of power."

"We aren't doing this for ourselves, _silver maggot,_ we are doing this for the hunt."

He smiled then, grabbing a silver sword that laid across his waist. He waved away the warriors of silver created a ring around the companion.

"Not when the hunter becomes the hunted."

Aerin swallowed deeply as the Skinner yelled out a battle cry and attacked the Circle werewolf with quick strikes. The bald man lifted up his shield quickly to block but winced in slight pain. Skjor might have been a good warrior once, Aerin noticed, but he wasn't so anymore. Not when fighting the Skinner.

Skjor cried out as he went for the barbarian's head, the Skinner ducking quickly and stepping to the Companion's right side. Since his sword was too far to block, the Skinner buried his silver steel into the veteran's Skyforge armor. Slight red bled through, however, the blacksmith had melded the steel well and was still intact slight from the hit.

Cursing, Skjor went on the defense, the axe sliding away from mostly steel, though the Skinner didn't even look slightly deterred.

"It is too bad you would not fight me in your other skin. I do enjoy werewolf pelts over human skin."

Skjor backed off and charged again, swiping first at the Skinner's exposed left side only to quickly pull back and go for a vertical hit to the Nord's neck. Meanwhile, the Skinner only laughed, dancing around him quickly as if he wasn't even a threat at all.

"You are slow for all that weight the Skyforge has given you. Like a burdening curse. Why is the metal so heavy, Companion? Because you were never meant to wear or wield it."

Skjor's eyes had turned slightly red then in anger and Aerin hadn't realized before that he was holding onto his chair fiercly. He wanted Skjor to win, even _if_ he was a Companion. Even _if_ they were the ones to ruin his life.

The Skinner was too fast. Skjor was a massive boulder when it came to speed and the taunts were not helping. Skjor was too quick to anger, to quick to strike back at the Skinner's harsh words.

Soon enough, the Skinner had him cornered against the far wall and when he attacked him with his silver sword, it hit the stone behind Skjor with a clang. Seeing as how the Skinner lost his weapon, Skjor grew confident and went to stab at the beast that killed Aerin's father.

However, the Skinner was too fast. He dodged the stab at his exposed torso and pulled out a silver knife from his upper furs. Skjor's eyes widened as the knife buried deep within his neck. Gargling out a few last curses, the Companion dropped his steel to the ground. Aerin's eyes widened in fear as the Skinner whispered something into Skjor's ear.

"Hunt well in your everlasting Oblivion, _beast._"

The Skinner then dropped the body of the Companion whose weight was felt on the boards below. The Skinner eyed Aerin whose face was stricken with horror. He then smiled a wicked smile at him, laughing. He knew his fear. He could smell his fear. He was not unlike the werewolves he hunted and killed. No, he was a monster.

Krev then turned around to address the others.

"A Companion never comes alone. Man the walls."

The Skinner passed by him with a silent threat. "_If you turn your back on us like the Circle, you will be nothing but skin to us. Nothing but skin and blood."_

He glared back at him with cold eyes, giving the Skinner his response. "_Nothing is here for me. And I will leave _nothing_ in my wake."_

Both moons were full this night, Aerin realized.

Full enough for a hunt.


	6. Lost Spirits

**One of Destiny**

* * *

_"When the dragon dies, the Empire dies. Where is the lost dragon's blood, the Empire's sire? And from the womb of the void, who shall stem the blood tide? So long as the blood of the dragon prince runs strong in her rulers, the glory of the Empire shall extend in unbroken years."_

Emperor Uriel Septim VII

* * *

**Chapter Five: Lost Spirits**

She remembered the blood most of all.

She remembered dragging her feet in pure terror as she saw the strange cloaked people destroy what she had called home. They flung balls of fire, lightning-heat. Her neighbors, her friends, were all butchered in one night. Except for her. And her father.

She was picked up quickly and thrown onto her father's dark horse. She remembered shouting for her mother. Her father told her to be silent, however, as he rode away quickly, the fire following them. She yelled at him because he wouldn't go back. He wouldn't go back for her mother and brother!

The dark cloaked High Elves, she remembered her father telling her almost a year later, were the Thalmor.

"Why did they kill my mother and brother?" she had asked one day.

Her father only looked off into the distance with a saddened look.

She knew later why they killed everyone. Why the butchery was meant to happen. They all worshiped Talos, a god proven to the elves to be false. They prayed to the long dead Dragonborn for healing, for success in the field of battle, and for the spring harvests. Talos was more than just a god to Skyrim. He walked among them.

She remembered a priest from Whiterun mention something along the lines of that.

When she opened her eyes, she realized that her body was moving. Up and down. She couldn't remember what happened before, only that she had felt hunger and lust for a hunt. For blood.

When she stirred, the horse below her stopped the sick motion.

"Well, you're finally up, new blood," she heard the voice of Aela mutter.

Something around her waist suddenly loosen and she felt herself slide to the ground. She was still a bit sore from whatever had happened to her...

Oh, right. She was a werewolf now. A _beast_.

Aela noticed her depressed look and sighed, bending over her.

"You were more of a problem than Vilkas and he was able to escape the city. You already killed a few when we got to you and the entire town guard were attempting to slay you like that dragon."

When she heard that she had killed people, her eyes bulged out of their sockets. What had she done? She never signed up for this. Mjoll the Lioness...well she really wasn't a lion anymore now, was she? She would never harm innocent people, she pledged...

She grew hot with rage. "Why did you do this to me!" she yelled, a few crows flew off in the trees stirring from fright. "I want no part in your Circle! Why did he make me..."

She was going to kill Skjor. But... she didn't even see Skjor or his horse. As if he was hiding from her...

Aela frowned. "We had no choice, Lioness. The Circle was growing thin as it was already and you learned something about us that you shouldn't have. The only way to make you quiet was if you became one of us."

"A beast," she yelled, still angered. "A monster? This is what you decided to do?"

The hunter before her stood up straight without bothering to help Mjoll up from the snow.

"A hunter, Mjoll. You sound too much like Kodlak. He thinks that this is a curse upon the Companions. What is a curse in truth? A negative effect without any positives. You saw Farkas. He took out twenty of those Silver Hand brutes with no trouble. That is the power promised, new blood, once you learn to master it."

"I do not want power," Mjoll said, seething. "I am not a simple mercenary. I don't fight for gold, power, land, fame-"

"Then what do you fight for then?" Aela retorted. "The snow?"

Mjoll struggled to stand up so that she was eye level to Aela. _This bitch, this good for nothing werewolf bitch! _

"I fight for my honor, something that you lack," she spat, eyeing her with sharp grey eyes. The wolf wasn't deterred, however.

"Honor is different for everyone, Lioness. My honor is in the hunt, like my mother and my grandmother before me. For some, honor is power. For others, honor is fortune. You can't argue for something so abstract."

She was going to punch this beast before she realized that her armor was gone and was replaced with simple clothes-probably from the mead hall. Her sword, however, was still by her side.

She gave Aela a suspicious eye. "Where is my armor?"

Aela merely shrugged. "Your werewolf figure consumed your armor along with everything else you had. The only reason why your sword remained was because it is Skyforge steel. Hircine has no need for that."

_Hircine_. The daedric god. Just hearing that name made her shudder. She was meant for Sovngarde, not the long hunt in Bloodmoon. Not Hircine. She promised her father that she would one day go to Sovngarde to meet her mother. And yet...she unintentionally broke _that_ promise.

She was a monster because they made her one. She was a hunter because they made her one. She adventured on her own terms, not theirs. Not these beasts. However, she didn't truly hate them. She hadn't before she turned. She only hated Skjor for forcing this upon her. And Aela.

She realized they weren't on the road at all but in an all too familiar forest. The paths looked like the ones they had traveled to get to High Hrothgar. The one where that battle took place.

"Where are we?" she asked.

Aela was tending to the horses when she looked up. "Near Gallow's Rock. The Silver Mongrels made a camp here when the Stormcloaks retreated from their fort a few weeks back. The Imperials had to run from dragons apparently. They've been killing brothers and sisters, hunting. Well, they will know who the true hunters are when we strike back."

"And where is... Skjor?" she asked, stumbling with his name before she called him a bastard.

Aela sighed at the mention of the veteran. Even she looked angered by him.

"He said he was going to scout out the area but he hasn't come back. Knowing him, he's probably gone on a rampage in there." She turned away from the horses as if they were to blame. "He enjoys the hunt more than all of us. I blame the Great War for his blood-lust. We may be werewolves but we should know when enough is enough."

She climbed onto her horse and nodded for Mjoll to get onto hers. She stepped into the stirrup and followed Aela as she led the way into the thick forest, the snow drifting down upon them softly.

"How long was I out?" Mjoll asked.

"About a day. Only the three of us are here. A bad number, really, when it comes to hunts. We try to come in pairs."

_A Shield-Sister must always have another Shield-Brother or Sister with her at all times,_ she remembered. Two pairs of eyes were better than one.

They followed a hunter's trail to the main road where the tall ex-Stormcloak fort stood, crumbled. The beating they took from the Imperials had been extreme, the walls marked with large rocks that had once been catapulted and ladders that were half broken. The gate itself had been torn apart and the single tower in the far back flew not a bear but a fist. The Silver Hand.

Torches were lit all across the wall and she would've sworn she saw silver reflected in the light. The gate had no choice but to be open so they had no need to climb one of the leftover unstable ladders. However, they did have to worry about arrows flying at them.

She stopped her horse, realizing where Aela was leading her.

"I'm not helping you," she said.

The red hair warrior turned in her saddle quickly to glare at her.

"You _will_ help us or else Skjor and I might kill your whelp on accident."

_Áerin? _"You've found Aerin? He's in here? How do you-?"

"The 'Skinner' sent us a message in werewolf skin, inviting us to a party being held by Aerin Silver Hand. Kodlak remembered that whelp's name and ordered us to go to this 'party.' This is no party though. This is a hunt."

As Aela motioned her horse away from the road and back into the forest, Mjoll wondered why Aerin had hid this secret from her for so long. At that Dwemer fortress she almost died in, Aerin himself said that he was searching for someone. She never got an answer as to who he was looking for, but she had a feeling as to who that was now.

The Skinner.

Why else would he had left them after Alodie talked to him? Aerin had put that life aside for years, after he and Mjoll had even met. And the Imperial, the _Dragonborn_, probably reminded him that he had a duty himself he needed to finish.

Before she hadn't wanted anything to do with Aela, but now since Aerin was trapped in there she had to follow the hunter. Aerin had saved her, so why shouldn't she save him? So, she followed Aela who had jumped off of her horse.

"The night is growing. It is time," she said. The hunter then began walking back towards the road, licking her lips. Mjoll eyed her with fear.

"What is the plan then? If Skjor hasn't come back..."

"We will go in after him. Something must have happened." Aela took her bow that was secured on her back and readied her quiver. Mjoll responded by unsheathing her own weapon but at the ringing of steel, Aela frowned. "There is a reason why we go in pairs. You are hunting this night, Mjoll."

When she heard those words coming from the hunter's mouth, her face grew red from anger. No. She wasn't going to turn into a beast. Why wouldn't _she _do it?

Aela could sense her detestation and turned to face her with an impatient look. "Your anger will be a problem and battling would only make it worse. Would you rather turn here where you are not vulnerable than in a fight where you are?"

Why was she always right? Mjoll couldn't believe this.

Giving Aela a sigh, she sheathed her weapon again and took a step back. She had no armor and most of her supplies were still sitting in the mead hall. Had Aela planned to do this to her all along? She couldn't believe how the hunter and the ex-soldier could have done this to her.

She sneered. "Fine. But I won't hold back if I decide to tear you apart instead."

Instead of giving her the expect growl from Aela, the red hunter smiled.

"You know already who your brothers and sisters are."

She wasn't sure if it was the anger she was holding back or the small voice she heard in the back of her head. Her body ripped and she was slightly shocked when dark fur began to take over her arms, her wrists, her legs. Her heightened senses hit her like a ton of bricks and what had once been a secunda-less night became closer to a shade of twilight. She could see the silver gleaming. She could smell the blood pumping in their veins.

Beside her, Aela took out her bow and was able to take down both of the stationed guards in front leaving the bowman on the rafters. Mjoll felt like she was shouting but instead she howled into the night sky. She was...different. _Alive._ She hadn't known what to expect to be a werewolf consciously. Before...when she _killed_ those innocent people...she had been so blinded by these new senses.

_Now_. Now she was ready for the hunt.

* * *

Alodie heaved when he awoke, drenched with sweat and his head burning. He coughed a few times, almost retching when he recalled his dream-he stabbed Mjoll..._the beast_...in the nightmare again. This time, he heard the laughing and he almost prayed to the _daedra_ that it would stop.

He was in a room. Inside the Palace of Kings. He smirked when he saw that the sun hadn't even risen beside his window, the heavy flurries almost pounding against the misty half warmed glass. He couldn't go back to sleep. Not after having _another_ accursed nightmare.

He was half dress so he threw some furs over himself as he decided to take a walk along the Palace's walls. Windhelm was not a bright place compared to Riften and Whiterun. The only colors here were grey and blue.

The cold hit him fiercely and he almost felt like dragging himself back inside. A few stormcloaks were huddled around a fire, looking out towards the north. Watching for bandits. Watching for dragons. Watching for Imperials. They jumped when they saw him in thin furs not suited for this weather and Alodie quickly looked away from them.

He was surprised that they hadn't kicked him out yet. He still had a painful limp and could barely go anywhere without the toothed crutch. His chest wound was still slightly burning from the potion he had been given. Alodie couldn't leave on his horse when he still felt like a tired old man.

Ulfric was nowhere to be seen. Well, he hadn't even tried leaving the chambers the poor maid had led him to. She had been scared witless of the glare he had been giving both her and Ulfric before he left. He wasn't hungry so he shooed the maid away who responded to him with a shaky nod and wavered "e-excuse me."

The day passed him by and soon enough he _did _feel hungry but the maid hadn't come back at all. Of course, that had probably been his fault. However, he didn't really feel guilty about the maid at all.

Fortunately, he was used to sneaking around rich places and the cook barely even noticed as he slunk inside. He was only a dark shadow carrying a harmless cooked venison slice and apple as if they had meant to be his. No one had even looked at him as he returned to his room with his bounty.

The maid had returned after he arrived to his room and gave him a queer look. He only shooed the scared nord maid away again who glanced towards him in slight confusion.

Surprisingly, he had almost laughed at the incident. _Almost._

"Up for an early morning stroll, Stormblade?"

The only people that really caught him by surprise in his life had been Brynjolf and Quill. And now, he could add Ulfric Stormcloak to the list.

He really felt like tossing the rebel over the battlements, however, his injuries and the fact that he was surrounded by stormcloak guards stopped him. The Imperial wasn't that stupid. He glanced away from the "high king" looking off into the north, hoping for another dragon to show up just so that Ulfric could leave him be. The last time he left him, the rebel king had almost shouted him to the ground but due to his strange abilities to resist some shouts now-he had to ask those Greybeards about this later-he had only dishonored him.

Ulfric was getting curious and respectful eyes from the guards watching the north and he waved his hand in order for them to return to their duties. This only increased Alodie's anger.

"I find it rather calm up here, esecially during the winter when the snows silence even the loudest of breaths. It's always chilled me as a child."

Alodie gave Ulfric an enraged look, tearing his face away from the silent snows.

"What do you want?" he asked caustically, his hot breath pluming into the winds. Ulfric didn't even look back at him.

"I underestimated you, dragonborn. I thought that you would have been easy to persuade and I hadn't expected you to be so defiant. Of course...you are an outsider as well, so I understand _why_ you feel betrayed by me. I've always...tried to fix my own mistakes. So I am fixing them now."

Alodie sneered at Ulfric when the Jarl turned around gave him an outstretched hand. Why was he trying to get on his good side? Alodie hadn't remembered the faces of most of the Thanes in the room-he could remember Ralof's face full of betrayal _clearly_-however, he could almost guess what had happened after he left.

They had fought with each other.

The Thanes had seen Ulfric at a moment of weakness and now his own rebel empire was cracking. As if it hadn't started crumbling before then, of course.

Alodie ignored the outstretched glove and watched as a crow cawed at him from above the roof. They reminded him of that black dragon, Alduin, so he looked away towards the faint light in the east.

He groaned. "I haven't seen you fixing your other mistakes, _Stormcloak_. What about this war? You can't have me believe that you weren't the one who started it. So, how could I believe you?"

"I...might have made some mistakes in the past, but I cannot stop what I already started. There are some terrors you do not know, _Stormblade_. The Thalmor is one of those terrors. The Empire...might be another. You look young. Maybe a babe when the fighting stopped. You can't tell me to fix a war that had already been planned out for me."

Alodie ignored Ulfric calling him Stormblade again out of spite and instead glared into his grey eyes. He was confused with the words "planned out" before shaking that off as merely an excuse. This Jarl was full of them, wasn't he?

"Why then? Why are you doing this? Why are you rebelling against-?"

He held his tongue as if the snows had frozen it and looked down at his feet instead. He had rebelled against the Empire before, hadn't he? That was one of the reasons why he had been on that cart, taking him to what was supposed to have been his death-Helgan.

Ulfric smirked. "I was your age when they killed my father. What was I to do with a hold that was still morning the loss of the Bear of Eastmarch? I _tried_ to follow in the wake of the war. I _tried_ to lessen my people's burdens. I _tried_ to ignore the protests outside my very walls. 'Kill the elves!' many cried. 'Avenge the Bear!' And many others died the night I became Stormcloak to my people.

"The Greybeards...they warned me once of my folly. When I ran away from that mountain-Frostfall the 30th-they shouted me down as I ran and I barely made it to Ivarstead before I collapsed. I felt betrayed then, you know. Why were the Greybeards shouting _me _down? The son of the Bear of Eastmarch? When I found my father already gone and off to war, I left and went after him. And then...he died. Why do I rebel, dragonborn? I rebel because I must. I _always_ must. And you might not feel as if _you_ must but then, what do you fight for? What is your purpose? Where is your spirit? Gone. Not in Sovngard-_no_-but just _gone_. And I will _not_ be gone. Not until the Empire bleeds."

Alodie's mouth had gone dry after the Jarl became silent, the fragile snows were interrupted only by soft chattering teeth. This damn _Jarl_. His own heartstrings felt as if they had been torn apart by Stormcloak and yet all he felt he heard had been excuses...So many _excuses_.

And yet, his reasoning behind Eiruki's death had been an excuse. The man who had killed her...how much he wanted to _kill_ him and destroy all that he was working towards. His heart almost stopped when he came to a realization.

He was no different than Ulfric Stormcloak.

Who was he to question this Nord? His entire existence was now spent doing...what? Listening and following. And running. Never fighting back. Maybe against a dragon. He was only one person though. Quill's words "destroy them from the inside" _almost_ reminded him of his purpose, but was that truly it? He was a thief, yes, but had he really wanted to follow _Mercer's_ weak orders? He was Dragonborn, yes, but had he really wanted any of that? He almost ran again if it hadn't been for Mjoll and the Jarl of Whiterun.

What was it that he truly _wanted_?

Alodie blinked again in realization. He had wanted, all along, to _destroy _Amaund Motierre. To kill Maro for giving out the orders to both his and Rue's execution. To kill them a_ll_. Maven. Ulfric. Tullius. Hadvar. Ralof. _Quill_. _Everyone_.

He laughed softly to himself, causing the Jarl beside him to stir, giving the Dragonborn an odd look. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was bloodthirsty. He really didn't care so he continued to laugh.

"You're wrong, Stormcloak." He looked off towards the rising sun finally silencing his chuckles. He stepped away from the edge of the battlements and began to walk off. He stopped limping so that his words could be heard still. "I've been rebelling this entire time."

The war-horn calling off in the distance interrupted the quiet snows.

* * *

"You. Yes _you_. Put that _down_, bastard."

He wasn't sure what had happened, but the moment after Skjor had died and most of the guards in silver left, he rushed at Skjor's double-handed sword and held it up-barely-to the Skinner's back. He was sweating, badly. He rarely picked up or _used_ swords. He was so afraid of them after his father's death-after the Skinner _killed _him.

Krev the Skinner, he could tell, was not believing him. No matter how close he came to him with the weapon, Krev only laughed. Why couldn't he kill him? What was stopping him?

He remembered Alodie then. _He_ was a coldblooded killer. He wasn't sure what type of treason he committed against the Empire and didn't _want_ to know, however, he wasn't blinded by revenge like he was. Was he? Why had he come here if it wasn't to slaughter the man who had killed his father?

The laughs became almost silent when an arrow was shot beside the Skinner's exposed face. Aerin froze and turned to glance towards Aela. _Yes, of course_. The Skinner had said that they traveled in pairs.

Krev pulled his sword out from his sheath and before Aerin could even _blink_, Skjor's sword flew out of his shaky hands and clattered onto the stone floor. Aela hadn't even breathed when she sent another arrow in his direction. To Aerin's horror, the Skinner sliced the shaft in two and came after _him_. With a sword brushing up against his throat, he didn't even dare to take a step back.

The hunter froze. "Get away from the whelp," she shouted. Footsteps and cries of pain were heard down the hallway. The two men guarding the door to the Lord's chamber were dead, a pool of blood forming underneath them.

He tried not to swallow as the Skinner came closer, the point of the sword becoming the edge.

"Surrender, _beast_. Maybe our little lord here will be merciful and maim you instead, little harlot."

He could almost smell the Skinner's disgusting breath and it reeked more than any dog he had ever come across. Aela looked as if she didn't know what to do and was interrupted by a large silver clad warrior stomping down the hall, his arm missing. Instead of going for the attack, however, he coward beside the dead bodies of his friend's. Aela ended his life without a second thought.

"Where's Skjor?" Aela demanded, searching the room. When she saw the pool of blood reflecting the torch light above, her face collapsed in horror. "What did you do to Skjor!"

The Skinner laughed beside his ear, causing him to cringe. "He was rather fun, your little fake Companion. Unfortunately, he was too much of a menace to be aloud to join the party. Too bad he didn't live, I would have _loved_ to have seen him suffer in my cages."

Aela spat and before the Skinner could do or say anything about that insolence, a terrifying roar was heard down the hall. Aerin's eyes bulged. Another one? He was sure that the companions only came in pairs.

The Skinner also seemed to notice this slight and brought the sword closer to his exposed throat.

"Call off the beast or he dies."

A dark form came pounding down the muggy hallway. The werewolf with dark grey fur and blood dripping from it's maw almost paused when it saw him with a sword to his neck. He himself was astonished that the beast managed to stop its apparent bloodthirsty rage inside the fort.

Something told him that this werewolf was different though.

Noticing the Skinner's loosened grip, Aerin quickly elbowed Krev's torso, ducking as he attempted to shave his head off. His heart was pounding when Aela shot off another arrow and more warriors came running down the hall both limping and shouting. Krev swiped his silver sword again at him but his small figure helped him to trip away onto the ground.

The Skinner was enraged.

"If I cannot have you, _bastard_, then no one has you!"

He tried to slid away from the Skinner quickly, however, he wasn't quick enough. The sword descended, intent on gutting him, yet caught his lower leg instead. His eyes blurred with pain and he barley realized Skjor's sword he held tightly beside him.

His shouting caused the monster to look over towards him in fear, one of the silver warrior's cutting it across the chest while it was distracted. The beast roared and took the surprised man's head between its teeth and chomped. Meanwhile, Aela took on the other warriors behind them with quick arrows before they came closer. However, there ended up being too many of them and she had to drop her bow and pull out her sword.

His focus returned to the Skinner who's eyes saw red, Aerin's blood trickling down the silver weapon.

"You know, your father was like this when he died. Crawling away like the little _milkdrinker_ he was. I find this situation so ironic! So _funny_..."

"Shut up!" he shouted back. "Don't...don't talk about...!"

_Did he have a _sword? The Skinner was walking at a snail's pace as he clawed away. Aerin protested however he couldn't move for his leg burned like molten lava.

He remembered watching as the Skinner butchered him, his father's sword sliding halfway across the small cottage that had lived in for that month. He hadn't even woken up when his father pulled out his sword and told him to run.

He couldn't run though. And he never _would_.

The beast was trying to save him, he saw. The werewolf was bleeding from the chest, its face had gained a small scar from elsewhere and it was still being assaulted by the Skinner's hunters. How many had there been? How did they get in?

The Skinner wanted to make him suffer. Like he had done to his father.

His grip on the sword loosened when Krev stomped on his open wound, his shouts almost matching the werewolf's angry roars. Aela had gained a nasty wound on her side, the Skinner was laughing at him through his teary eyes...and yet he still held onto the sword.

"I'm sure you remember your father's screams while you _ran_. He was fun. _Too_ fun. I started with his fingers, going to his toes before all that was left was his head. He betrayed the clan. You-just by being _born_- betrayed the clan. I thought you would have helped me but it seems as if I won't have the chance to even use you. Farewell then, _bastard._"

When his sword arm came up, aiming to chop his hand off, an arrow came gliding from his left and buried itself within the Skinner's sword arm. Krev dropped his sword, astonished and in pain. He howled like the werewolf and held his shaking bleeding hand frailly. Another arrow found his side and he went down quickly.

Aerin saw the opportunity and ignoring his pained leg. He rolled up to his knees, holding Skjor's sword with both hands and using it as a crutch. Krev, seeing the movement, tried to go after his silver sword however his fingers were too slippery to grasp the metal.

Aerin's eyes almost smirked as he wobbly stood, the sword in his hands not as heavy as it had been before. He could see Aela in the corner of his eye beating back more warriors and the werewolf panting near him on the ground from the wounds it had accumulated.

The Skinner's sword arm had been first. Aerin's eyes were red with hate, furious at Krev who had once been a Skinner.

"_Please_!" he heard the once Skinner shout. The skyforge steel came down onto the once Skinner's left arm. "I-I _please_! By _Talos have merc_-!"

He hadn't even noticed when he stabbed the once Skinner's leg and twisted, the blood coursing down like rivers.

"You never gave my father any mercy, _beast,_" Aerin barely recognizing that he had even said anything.

And then, before he could take the once Skinner's leg off, a dark maw came from the shadows and buried its teeth within his father's murderer. The werewolf, shaking the once Skinner's neck and breaking it, released the half-figure to the ground.

Aerin only felt numb.

His face grew red and the grip around his sword tightened. Shouting in a complete rage, he had long forgotten his injured leg as he went to tackle the beast who had taken away his _only_ revenge! How could these werewolves take away any and all that he had wanted!

He had searched for Krev for so long. When he found Mjoll, he gave up, realizing that he would've ended up like her someday. Half dead and broken.

So, what happened when he could _finally_ kill Krev for what he had done to his father? He let someone else do all of the work for him! He stood on the side again!

Skjor's sword was heavy again. He was shocked when he saw the werewolf's pained grey eyes. He blinked once and almost jumped back in both fear and rage. He knew those eyes, those tender hurt eyes. Mjoll...her eyes were exactly like those eyes when he found her half-dead beside the road to Dawnstar.

The werewolf was Mjoll.

And the hilt was buried beneath her fur.


	7. The Silence Has Been Broken

**One of Destiny**

* * *

_"You sleep rather soundly for a murderer. That's good; you'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose."_

Lucien Lachance

* * *

**Chapter Six: The Silence Has Been Broken**

The eves of the everlasting trees shuttered in the wind and branches cracked as a mage slid past them. Marcurio knew he wasn't as sly as Alodie or as rough as Mjoll but he knew when there was some sort of crisis going on. A few foxes were gazing curiously at him through the bushes and he gave them a dangerous glare.

"I don't see _you_ trying to save someone's life, little bastards."

That scared the foxes away and also brought unwanted attention to himself. When he heard the growls through the foliage, he sighed. His fire was enough to dispatch most of the wolves and run off the rest of the pack.

He traveled a bit more before he caught sight of the people he had been following for half a day now. Bending low, he followed them through a familiar forest-one that he had practiced his frost magic once. When they stopped, he stopped.

Mjoll slid to the ground...

He heard the shouts while he had been drinking inside Jorvaskr. Both Vilkas and Farkas had rushed outside when they heard the shouts and he followed them out in major suspicion.

_Where was Mjoll?_ She had stepped out after the drinking had gotten a bit too much for her apparently. However, when the howling outside increased, he began to worry.

Underneath the moonlight was a gigantic beast. Guards surround it like heroes even though most were shaking in their boots. The Circle was standing out there, running down the steps towards the werewolf. However, before they could even go after it with swords, the beast's roar shook the large religious tree in the middle of the square.

He hadn't noticed it before, but everyone from the Circle was there. Everyone. And yet...none of them were that werewolf. Then, who was it? Who was that beast that was ripping apart guardsmen like butter?

He had no choice but to go after it. He heard Skjor curse when the beast began to barrel past late night walkers. A drunken man was cut off and screamed like a milkdrinker when the werewolf rushed after him.

That was when the second werewolf showed up. He knew he had been forgetting someone in the Circle and noticed that the hunter bitch was nowhere to be seen. Either of them could have been Aela.

"Stop it!" cried the watch captain, Caius. To him, it was like the dragon incident all over again. This time, however, the beast had been able to climb over walls.

Vilkas was rushing towards the beast, his sword out. The werewolf was tearing into the drunken man with no regard to the arrows slinking into its fur. The dark beast went after another innocent victim, shedding a woman who had been cowering behind a market stall. Rotten vegetables and fruits went flying mixed with blood and cries for help.

And only the Circle was able to circle around the dangerous beast.

"Calm down, new blood," he barely heard Skjor mutter under his breath.

_New blood_? He had never heard the term before, even if he wasn't that observant. The beast reeled back but otherwise it didn't seem to feel the arrows piercing its hide. He then grew worried when it came rushing towards his direction.

"_By the_-" he wasn't able to finish when it roared at him. He had never shaken so much before in his life and the adrenalin seemed to rush out of him like blood. Before he grew almost faint, he saw the eyes of this beast. Grey ones. Odd how they weren't yellow-hadn't those other werewolves been that way? He couldn't really remember... but he did remember the large fireball he could barely control heading towards the dark beast.

He was surprised that it looked like it was in pain and it drew back from the offending fires like it was venom. He smirked. _Well, at least we know its weakness._

He was almost afraid that the monster would come after him again and screeched when the werewolf began to run at him again with fire licking at its skin.

It jumped clean over him like he was some sort of obstruction.

The guards at the gate had been shooting at the wolf for awhile now, and instead of protecting the gate like normal soldiers, they jumped into the side towers like cowards. Men watching the walls turned inward to the menace inside their very city and were screaming orders to the others. Most were half-terrified.

The Circle ran past him, the red werewolf that was being ignored due to the darker one's increased blood-lust bound past him like an over sized rabbit. He could see that beast glaring at him as he tried to follow.

The tainted beast had easily scaled Whiterun's half weathered down walls and many of the Circle were shouting in disbelief. Including him. He was still pondering whether or not he was still drunk by this time.

When both werewolves and Skjor had gone, the city began to take a look at the damages.

And now, here he was, shocked to find out that Mjoll had been that werewolf.

Skjor had left them when they had entered the forest and only Mjoll-who was tied to her horse-and Aela stayed behind. No one else from the Circle had followed them for some reason.

When Mjoll had awoken, he had to move a bit faster due to the fact that they both were awake now. He trudged through heavy snow and was breathing heavily by the time he could follow the tracks to where they were heading. He felt like smacking himself for not bringing his horse with him but figured the hunter bitch and veteran would have spotted him sooner.

He was used to walking long distances thanks to Alodie anyway.

He almost stopped breathing when he heard the screams. The dark grey werewolf was attacking-again-though this time it was striking at silver warriors. He remembered them automatically as being those silver bastards that were hunting those werewolves before.

What was Mjoll doing helping the Circle?

After clearing a path to the entrance to the keep, he followed, using his spells to topple down those that had survived. He had never fought this many in a long time, but he had promised Alodie under his gold oath to protect Mjoll. Even if she was a monster now.

He had already gained a few bruises and cuts when he made it to the broken down keep door. _Mjoll isn't really that...subtle, is she?_ The carnage from inside was echoing out to him and he shuttered slightly as he ran past half cut men who were pleading for his mercy.

One of the reasons why Marcurio liked magic was because it was clean. He wondered if that was why the Nords despised mages, they wanted to see the blood coming out of their opponents and feel their cries for mercy.

He put some of the warriors out of their misery and followed the path of blood. When he came upon some sort of prison room, he spotted Aela running past Mjoll, crying out towards her to distract most of them while she went to find the Skinner.

_The Skinner_. He remembered that man they came across and how Aerin had reacted to his revel. The little Imperial really did have a big secret to hide, now did he? Of course, not that he wasn't full of them...

He hid in one of the open cells, gagging when he spotted a fully blood drained werewolf hanging by one hand, a skeever cage enclosed around its mouth. He blanched and held his mouth from throwing all of his stomach's contents beside him.

He barely noticed when the room suddenly grew quiet.

He edged carefully up to the swinging cage door, looking out to see even more carnage. Limbs were strewn around like New Life confetti, silver armored warriors were groaning through blood that slipped past their lips. Many were dying. Many were crying for mercy.

He put most of them under an ice spike again and tread carefully through the halls. Nords were littered with both arrows and teeth marks and he could still hear the cries he had been following for eternity.

The bloodcurdling shrieks slowly quieted and he had thought that all was safe. Maybe, just maybe, these Silver Hand bandits surrendered. He would have after seeing all the blood and pain from these warriors.

He could see his breath for some reason as he spotted Aela beside the broken door frame. She was holding her side and staring out into the room beyond, breathing heavily as blood ran past her fingers.

He ran towards her- half-keen to help her out with the wound-yet froze when he saw what she was staring at.

Aerin stood there, a sword in hand, and had pierced Mjoll's werewolf torso cleanly with it.

Marcurio turned even whiter than he was already and saw that Aela was preparing an arrow.

"No, _wait_!" he shouted towards her but she didn't pay any heed as she released it. Fortunately-he didn't know why he felt relieved when Aerin could have killed Mjoll-the small Imperial released the large sword at that moment and the shaft cut only though his left arm.

Marcurio didn't know what came over him, but he shoved Aela away when she tried to pull back another arrow.

"What are you doing here!" she shouted at him.

"Stop! Just..._don't_!" he shouted back at her.

Mjoll's werewolf body had collapsed in a heap and he grew immediately worried. Aerin was shaking as he held the shaft of the arrow that pierced his upper arm and turned. Marcurio wasn't sure what to do when he had Aela pinned down, so, he cast a powerful paralysis spell on the hunter that drained most of his magicka.

"Aerin!" he shouted.

But the Imperial wasn't listening and was limping away. He tried to cast another spell at him but cursed when he realized he had nothing left. He wasn't strong enough.

"Stop, Aerin! Why did you do that! Why did you-!"

Before he could run after him, he heard coughing from behind his shoulder.

Mjoll's naked body laid in a dark pool of blood. Marcurio shuddered in fear and ignored Aerin who was still limping away from them. He...he knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to protect Mjoll. Alodie...paid him to do so.

"M-mage..." he could hear her weakly breath. He shook his head, dumping his pack of all that he had brought with him. He was panicking though...he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing! Mjoll was dying and he could barely even concentrate on the task at hand! What healed what injuries? What ingredients produced poisons? All that he thought he had learned from both the Synod and abroad left his mind through a suction cup.

He felt his hand being grasped by a weaker one.

"Get...Aerin..." How was she even speaking in her state? "He...thinks..."

"No. No. Stop talking will you, _stupid_ woman! Don't you see I'm trying..."

She hadn't even lasted another minute in half-consciousness and the dark pool of blood was mixing with a brighter pool of red.

He hadn't even realized when Aela stood beside him.

"Skyforge steel..." she began, wincing from her wound. "...there is a reason why the Silver Hand use silver weapons instead of normal steel...and why we use Skyforge rather than normal steel..."

Marcurio then saw that Skjor's sword was beside Mjoll. Aerin hadn't taken the sword out of Mjoll and neither had he so why-

Silver Hand. He remembered reading it within the Imperial Library in the forbidden sections. Of course...he had to cast invisibility in order for him to sneak past the Synod guards...and they had been none the wiser...and yet he learned more than the average mage about beasts and gods.

He read about dragons and could remember the unreadable language that he tried to unlock. He read about draugr and their mysterious appearances that lacked any necromancers. And, he read about werewolves and how even the sharpest steel would be a simple dent once the werewolf became a human again.

Silver Hand. They knew what killed werewolves, both in their spirit form and their mortal form. Weak silver.

Mjoll's puncture within her torso had disappeared. What remained had been the long cut across her left by the Silver beasts and many other wounds that were to innumerable to count. She could live! She had a chance!

And...Alodie wouldn't kill him the next chance he saw him! _Hopefully_.

Aela left him alone as he tried to stop Mjoll's wounds from bleeding out and he was slightly successful if not stressing himself out. He was pushing his body and magicka to the limit and grew tense when he thought Mjoll had stopped breathing completely. He was no healer. Sure, he had been proud when he helped Alodie with his poisoned wound and teased that little fetcher when he tried to run away from him with a dislocated joint, but this was different. This was life or death.

He hadn't noticed when Aela had disappeared from behind him and was running towards another though bloodless hallway.

* * *

His mind was racing with panic. His empty stomach was retching with poisonous fluids.

He had killed Mjoll. _He had killed Mjoll_. Tears were flowing down his face like her blood and he told himself to stop them but he couldn't. He just...couldn't. He had killed Mjoll._ He had killed her_.

He saw those grey eyes and they had been the mask of his betrayal. Why had he been so _blinded_? What had gone _wrong_? He hadn't even remembered when he pierced Mjoll's werewolf flesh in his bloodthirsty vision. He even forgot about the arrow that had punctured his arm. He could only feel Mjoll's pain...

"Ah, you're awake!"

He remembered Mjoll waking up, bandaged and with watery grey eyes. He remembered smiling a her when she tried to stand while he had forced her back down. "You're rather lucky to even be alive, stranger."

"M-Mjoll," she had croaked. "Mjoll the Lioness."

"Lioness?" he responded, giving her a queer look. "I'm...really not sure if there are any lions in _Skyrim_...Mjoll."

She then began telling him of the large dwemer machination that had almost killed her and of Grimsever that she had left behind. Her brother and mother's sword. She had been stupid, really...and _he_ had been stupid. He had left Riften in search of the Skinner...he heard that a strange man in dark furs had been spotted in Dawnstar. He hadn't really ever been to Dawnstar, so he had stopped at an inn for the night. And there was when he first saw Mjoll, though, he stayed away from most warriors in fear that one might be from the Silver Hand.

He had stirred the rabbit stew slowly and gave Mjoll a bowl to eat. She gave him a curious stare before sipping at her meal carefully, her wounds still painful even though he used all of his healing potions on her.

"I'm rather fortunate that a kind stranger came across me so late in the night...what were you out here for?"

He swallowed his tender soup and looked over into the thin trees that covered the roadside.

"I was...looking for someone."

And she left it at that, thanking him again for rescuing her. He really didn't want to be thanked for something that any noble person would do.

When he saw Mjoll sipping painfully at her soup, he realized what he was doing. Riften was a mess-it was the only safe place for him in all of Tamriel-and here he was being an arrogant sot, looking for revenge. His father had told him to run once. He should have respected his wishes and stayed in Riften where it was safe. He told himself he wasn't being a coward. He couldn't destroy the Silver Hand _and_ the Companions himself.

But...maybe he could solve his own problems at home. And maybe that would clear his conscience for now. Maybe...not forever, but until he had the strength to face what he had been running away from.

Mjoll had been reckless and fool-hearty and he pledged himself from then on that he would protect Mjoll from herself. What else would he do now that he felt no need for vengeance? He could spend his time protecting her rather than living his life filled with hatred and sorrow.

They had been walking towards Dawnstar but he hadn't felt like telling Mjoll that he wanted to go back. When they stayed there for a week while Aerin pretended to look, Mjoll went down onto her knees.

"There is...not much that I have left to do anymore," she had said, smiling painfully up at him. "Grimsever was my driving force to explore Tamriel to her fullest...but now a stranger who could've just walked on by saves my life. A life that I have been living for no reason but to fight and die. I have...too much to repay."

Aerin really didn't say anything. What could he say? He never had some warrior swear an oath to him before. Not ever. He wasn't _worth_ an oath. But...Mjoll followed him to Riften, gaining an old two handed axe in Dawnstar before they left. She had told him of her journeys across Tamriel in her five years as a warrior. From Morrowind to High Rock. He was amazed at how far across the land she had traveled.

He tripped on a large branch and felt cold snow biting into his open palms. He felt the pain in his arm and leg then and tried not to scream in utter agony. The sun was rising, he could tell, and he had no idea where he had run.

He never ran. And yet...he ran from Mjoll's lifeless corpse. _How could he_? He wasn't even fit to live, was he? He should be running back to Aela, demanding that she take his life.

And..._Marcurio_...the stupid wizard. Of course he came to their aid at the end of the fight. He really wished that he had killed that Imperial instead of Mjoll. Why had that werewolf been Mjoll? _Why_?

He was still sobbing like a milkdrinker. _Stupid_! He cursed himself. He wondered if his tears would freeze on his face.

"You always tend to those who need help the most, don't you?" Mjoll had said as the night waned. The fever ridden stranger that rested in a spare cot was finally sweating and the only cure disease potion they had laid beside him, empty.

He gave her a thin smile. "Only those you throw at my feet, Mjoll. I don't know how many times I've told you that it's not safe to be walking around at night."

She only laughed, standing from her chair and looking out into the noon sky. "I'll get us lunch ready then. Do you know when our black haired friend will wake up?"

Aerin rolled his eyes. "I'm not a healer, Mjoll. He could wake up years from now for all I know."

He really did ruin his life, didn't he? Alodie had been the silent stranger in the night, the assassin who climbed windows and slit throats. He might not have been able to forgive himself, but it had been Alodie who had set his clouded vengeance in motion.

He remembered speaking to Alodie the night he left Mjoll...

"You saved Mjoll and then you threw your own burdens onto her," the dark haired man had said.

And his reply.

"I didn't save Mjoll to save myself! I'm not selfish because I'm not _you_."

But...he did. He saved Mjoll in order to stop himself from killing both the Skinner who killed his father and his uncle who ordered it-thus killing him. Mjoll opened his eyes enough for him to throw every last problem to her feet. He was selfish. He should have been dead years ago because of it. When Alodie came, all of his hiding behind Mjoll's shadow like a coward had changed.

And he hated Alodie because of it.

He had promised, once, that if Mjoll turned into a monster, he would kill him for it.

He reasoned that if Mjoll was dead, he might as well take the _him _down with her. And...if Alodie killed him...then it wouldn't have mattered anyway. His vengeance wasn't over...his uncle was still alive, Marcurio was still alive. And Alodie...he would be saving until he was ready.

He hadn't noticed when he came upon the main road. He hadn't seen that wolf red haired hunter following him and figured that he had somehow lost her within the forest. His mouth burned from biting down onto his tongue and his arm and leg were groaning with pain and cold. He snapped the arrow shaft quickly but hadn't even felt the pain. What was he, a draugr now? He felt like one.

A dark shadow from the west.

A figure on a dark horse was riding towards him, a hood overdrawn it's face. The figure slowed their horse down once they saw him upon the road, knees bent and bleeding from the arrow head. He could feel his vision waver when the dark figure pulled off her cloth mask and dismounted. He could see half a dark tail swish as the assassin looking figure stopped and bent over him.

When he saw her eyes, he remembered.

The assassin that had tried to kill Alodie.

This Khajiit was surprised as well when she recognized him and grabbed his collar fiercely. He felt like crying out however this dark Khajiit appeared more frantic than bloodthirsty.

"Where is he?" she hissed. He could smell her disgusting breath and flinched, his dark eyes traveling over to the Khajiit's. He hadn't liked her when they first met, in fact, he had wished for either Alodie or Marcurio to kill her after the pain she had caused them. And of course...that stupid mage had fallen asleep at his post.

He really wanted to be left alone. Mjoll was gone...because of him. Because of Marcurio. Because of the Silver Hand. Because of the Companions. Because of Alodie. He didn't want to suffer anymore of society again. He wanted to run...

And yet...he looked up at the Khajiit who shook him again.

"He's around here isn't he, Imperial? _Speak_ before I take off a finger!"

"No," he had said softly. "H-He's not with us."

That only caused the Khajiit to throw him back to the ground in anger and pull out two knives-both dripping with a poison.

"I don't like playing games and the last time I played that _traitor_ cost me half of my tail. I will not run this time, human."

He coughed, the snow beneath on his side drenching his leather pants. His blood was marking the ground with his presence and he held his injured arm tenderly in order to stop the blood. He wasn't a healer...

He was brave enough to look the black Khajiit into her golden eyes, causing the angry cat to flinch in surprise.

"But..." he began. "I know where he might be."

The cat pounced on him again, sliding the knife close to the wound that he was holding.

"Where," she hissed. "Tell me!"

He didn't even pay the knife any mind as he stoically looked behind him to the south. There stood the Throat of the World in its full splendor...and a dragon circling the trees in the far off distance. He prayed that it wouldn't come any closer. He looked back at the cat.

"He betrayed both of us, didn't he?" he asked. He wasn't sure as to what Alodie had done to this cat in the past, but he knew enough to know that he was a backstabbing bastard. "I'll...help you...There is nothing left for me anymore...I-I might as well-"

The knife came up to his throat instead of his wound. He felt the cold dark nightshade poison dripping onto his collarbone.

"Speak. Faster. _Jekosiit_."

He swallowed but he was prepared. He was going to help this Khajiit...he knew that it was dangerous, but why would he care anymore? He killed Mjoll. He _murdered_ Mjoll. And if Alodie hadn't talked to him..._Mjoll would have still been alive_.

He gave her a grim smile that slightly startled the cat. Through the pain, he edged closer. He hadn't..._smiled_ in so long...

"Last I saw him, he was going up the mountain. To find the Greybeards. And...to become Dragonborn." He looked back into the Khajiit's eyes. "He thinks I'm a milkdrinker. But I'm not. Not anymore. I will..." The cat lowered her knife slowly but still cautiously bent over him. "I will help you kill him."

* * *

Alodie hadn't remembered the last time he heard a war horn. War had been lost upon him. But not his sister. Eiruki said that she remembered the dark cloaked High Elves storming into every home in the waterfront, searching for any religious symbols of Talos. Some people were found...and men burned upon granite statues of the dragonborn emperor.

He tried not to bring up the Great War around Eiruki; though, she hadn't stopped him from asking some old Nord and Imperial war beggars upon the docks. He would get a story a coin, they told him. So, he gave them a coin that he stole from Rue's stash-he would get yelled at later-in order to hear the old and young maimed men share their tales.

Most were tortured. Few were spared underneath the Thalmors' golden hands. The city had burned for three straight weeks they said. Many women and children related to the Emperor and the Councilors had died that night. Food was given to their elven masters to eat. People starved and babes had no milk to suck from their mothers.

Then, the Emperor came back. With a treaty.

Ulfric Stormcloak rushed past him as the war horn tooted again, brushing past him as if he was just another one of his soldiers. He limped after him, noticing how off guard the blue warriors were. After all, the Empire had retreated weeks ago. The stormcloaks shouldn't have been expecting an attack in Windhelm for months or if not at all.

He was glad to find himself within warm walls, however, he knew that would not last. He struggled to climb down the stairs after Ulfric but he couldn't catch up. He had to bend down and rub his leg-_ha_, he acted like an old man!

A wispy looking man stood beside the Jarl when he entered the spacious throne room. What he assumed to be the steward was shaking a scroll towards the Jarl.

"A rider was let in through the gates. Don't worry my Jarl...this is a stormcloak war party..."

Ulfric was red in the face as he grabbed the scroll and trotted towards the war room. Alodie saw Galmar standing patiently inside. He then began to wonder...had everyone been up this early? He really doubted that both Galmar and the Jarl's steward would have been up and about at this time...

Galmar was stone faced for once.

"There was an attack, Ulfric. At Dawnstar."

"How are they able to recover so fast?" he denied, unraveling the sealed scroll. The steward beside the throne was giving him a queer look that he ignored as he limped inside the war room.

He wasn't well received.

"Get out."

The Jarl gave him quick dark eyes as he read the scroll. Galmar also gave the Imperial the same look. Alodie was deterred, however, and limped up to the worn map of Skyrim. Ulfric looked away from the report and gave his full attention to the rebellious Dragonborn.

"Did you hear the Jarl, _boy_?" Galmar spat, crossing his thick arms. "He said to high tail out of here like the little milkdrinker you are."

"I'm not a boy."

Galmar laughed at his reply and spat to the floorboards. "Not Stormblade. Not Dragonborn. Not boy. What are you then? A _thief_?"

"Enough, Galmar," the Jarl replied. He turned his attention back to Alodie. "This war is apparently none of your concern, Stormblade. Unless you want to start giving me vows, you are to leave this room else I chop off your head. Just like it was meant to be."

_Just like how yours was meant to be_, Alodie had wanted to say. But, he liked his head the way it was upon his shoulders so he gave Ulfric the pleasure of looking upon his back again. _They ask for my help_, he thought, _and yet unless I give them a stupid oath I am not deemed honorable in their eyes_. He began to despise the hypocrisy of it all again.

He closed the door behind him to both of the war leader's delight. The short Nord steward gave him a suspicious eye that he all but ignored and wondered if he should be heading back to his room. However, his room was where the nightmares were and sleep was not the first activity on his mind.

So, he waited in the throne room for two hours, all with the steward giving him a suspicious eye. As if he would try and kill him if he tried to go back in within the war room. Servants offered him breakfast but he denied all of them and none were so easy as to argue.

He began to wonder how long they were going to be in there. They were hiding something.

As he began to stand up with his single crutch, the double doors to the throne room were thrown open forcefully. Both he and the steward widened their eyes when over fifty men began to fit inside the chambers-most of them stormcloaks. Alodie took a hesitant step back only for him to realize exactly what he was looking at.

The steward straightened. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked what Alodie assumed to be a general. The buff looking Nord smirked, brushing snow off of his bear cloak.

"The Jarl might want to see this, steward."

The Nord general hadn't even given him a single look as the steward ran off into the war room where he could hear a slight rise in voice. As the steward tried to gain the leader's attention, the general looked down at him.

"You a servant, boy?"

Alodie really felt like laughing at the Nord's face. Well...that was a first. People had thought him to be an assassin, a thief, a Dragonborn...but never a _servant_. He really must have looked bad without his armor, cloak, and sword at his hip plus a crutch to boot.

Unfortunately, he couldn't respond to the disrespectful Nord when Ulfric and Galmar came out into the throne room. Both glared at him and the Stormblade shrugged in return. He couldn't help when events happened before his very eyes now, could he?

"General Horrgir," Galmar stated, shaking his head. "What in Oblivion has happened? Why are you not in the forts stationed near Dawnstar?"

"We lost the forts, yes, but not the city. Right now, that 'boy' Jarl is stuck between defending from both the northern seas and the southern tundras. I wouldn't be surprised if the hold falls and the Jarl executed within the month."

Ulfric grew a familiar red that Alodie knew he was losing a battle. He wasn't really surprised when the Jarl of Windhelm's voice began echoing again.

"Within the month? How senseless..._what reasons do you have for abandoning your posts_?" His voice was close to shattering the stained windows of the Palace of Kings. The General wasn't afraid, however. In fact, he appeared impatient.

"Very good reasons, my Jarl."

General Horrgir called to the back of the fifty men that were squeezed within the hall. The crowd parted and revealed four red armored men-one was heavily armor, a helmet masking his face. Alodie assumed that man to be the captain.

Ulfric was still angry and confused and only glanced at the beat up and bloodied soldiers for a split second before looking back up.

"Who are these Imperials?" he asked with a quieter voice. Horrgir seemed a bit more relaxed after that.

"Bring it forward."

A stormcloak soldier who looked to be a rank below the general brought up a crown made of sharp dragon's teeth. A few servants who had been making their rounds had stopped at the sight of it, dropping broomsticks and dinner ware. The steward's mouth had dropped and Galmar's mouth had curled into a wide smirk.

The crown looked heavy and ancient-dust and cobwebs collected within the dragonbone crown. Alodie had no idea how he knew it was made of dragonbone and yet he just knew. The stormcloak soldier holding the heavy crown was smiling brightly-he probably never felt this prideful in his life before.

However...when Ulfric attempted to grasp the crown, he snapped back as if...something had burnt him. His face looked confused and no one besides Alodie had noticed his reaction since all eyes were trained upon the crown.

The Jarl nodded his head, the anger all but leaving his system. "Yes...the Jagged Crown."

"Take it, Jarl Ulfric. We searched high and low for the ones who attempted to steal the crown away. And we found them...we found them past the mountains living on stale bread and diseased skeevers. And we came here just to give you this crown. To smite the Empire from the darkness and bring you a crown meant for a High King's brow."

And yet...Ulfric just nodded his head. Alodie narrowed his eyes at the strange action.

"This is...I thought the crown had all but been lost. You serve Skyrim proudly, General Horrgir. I will place this upon my head for all of Windhelm to see." He glanced towards Alodie for a split second. "We might have lost a hold...but we now have _two_ symbols whispering the Stormcloak name."

Alodie's mouth gaped, his heart skipping a beat as the Jarl proclaimed this. He didn't meant to..._oh he meant to_. It never mattered whether or not he said an oath to Jarl Ulfric-he had come to Windhelm. He drank mead and ate food beneath the Palace of Kings.

His mouth dried up immediately.

_He meant to..._

"The Dragonborn has proclaimed his sword unto the Stormcloaks and all that they stand for."

He felt his wounded leg groan as he went for the Jarl. The men were surprised when this servant looking man came up the Jarl as if he was no one and grabbed the fur of his collar. Of course, he looked more like a fish on a hook than an intimidating slaughterfish since Ulfric was taller than he was by a foot and a half at least. He wasn't deterred however...even when sixty swords were unsheathed and aimed towards his direction.

"I proclaimed nothing!" he shouted. "_Nothing_, you bastard!"

It was happening again. He was being framed again. He was too naive to think that his words would have mattered to these Stormcloak fools! His words had meant nothing to Maro when he had been dragged up to the man's office like the thief he had once been. And was once again. What were the words of a pauper against a lord's? In the eyes of both men and mer..._nothing_.

He felt something hard and cold pound into the side of his face and he released the Jarl as he was knocked back into the poor Stormcloak soldier who held the Jagged Crown. As he fell, the bottom of the solid unbreakable dragonbone smashed into his head and only hung onto him for a split second before it fell into his knees. His eyes were swimming in pain again and his hand was grasping unknowingly onto the crown. The bone was familiar to him. Similar to the bones out in the yard.

He saw that the blunt portion of Galmar's axe had clonked him on the head as blood trickled past his eye. The large blond bearded man was going to go for him again-was he going to kill him? When Quill had taken hold of him by Maro's command, he had struggled until he lost complete consciousness. His last image of pale Maro had been a disappointed frown.

That wouldn't happen again.

He stood up as quick as his right leg allowed.

"_**Wuld**_-"

He was only half up and out of breath when he whispered the shout. His eyesight was even more out of focus when he came out...and had knocked back most of the soldiers in his wake. He stood beside the entrance of the Palace of Kings-grasping the crown between slippery fingers. He only looked down at it with minor confusion.

Ulfric was red faced again and shouted orders to go after him. Since his eyesight was still blurry from being hit by axes and crowns, he couldn't shout again and began to limp out into the cold snow stormy morning.

They would catch him of course. Eventually, the Pentius Oculatus had caught him as well.

Other soldiers were around him suddenly. The red armored ones. He felt a firm grasp on his shoulder that pushed him forward. The motion strained his bare feet as he ran but it was enough for him to ignore the pain. Ha, it almost reminded him of his escape from Helgan. He had been barefoot then too. Not limping of course.

He could tell that Ulfric had ordered for him to come back alive. Arrows were flying past his head even though most had a clear shot. They were trying to scare _him_. An _assassin_. A _thief_.

Two of the Imperial soldiers that were trying to escape with him, for some reason, were shot down-milk-maids going about their morning duties screaming at the murder that was occurring on the streets. A few stormcloak soldiers were looking at them confusingly until they noticed that they were the Imperials the Stormcloaks had brought in and began to attack with their brothers.

Alodie hadn't even noticed when he shouted _wuld_ again. This time, the heavily armored Imperial soldier was hanging onto him and he went a shorter amount of distance than before.

He also didn't notice that he was still carrying the crown within his hands.

"By the gods...I thought that other shout had been powerful..." he heard a familiar voice stagger beside him. He ignored the Nord in Imperial armor as they continued running. He was crazy...really. He thought he had been crazy before, but this...he was unknowingly going to _war_ with Ulfric Stormcloak. He hadn't wanted that, why else would he have taken his axe? He had wanted the Jarl to see _reason_ not _madness_.

The crown slipped from his grasp and fell to the muddy snows. The Imperial soldier stopped, pulling his shoulder with him. The stormcloaks-though still startled-were closing in on Alodie and the last remaining Imperial soldier.

The Nord cursed and went to grab the crown. An arrow shot out admist the chaos...many arrows. Some were still threatening the dragonborn...others hit the heavily armored red soldier. Alodie reacted as his survival instinct had told him to and ducked. He hadn't even blinked as he stopped the red soldier from falling by the two shafts that stuck out from his back.

He suddenly saw familiar brown eyes.

_Hadvar_?

Another arrow shot past them and three soldiers had finally caught up to them. Hadvar was heavy and the weight was agony on his wounded leg. And yet...he didn't leave the Nord. _Why_? He should have left him to the stormcloaks as he tried to escape himself.

Hadvar had shoved the crown into Alodie's other hand that wasn't trying to hold the man upright.

"Come on..." he barely muttered.

Another _wuld_ and they were at the gate. Alodie realized that he was using himself as a shield to Hadvar...the soldiers were not so keen as to shoot at him after he had slayed a dragon. Even though Ulfric might.

The gate guards jumped as he suddenly appeared like a specter and barged him and Hadvar's barely conscious body into the heavy doors. Still out of breath, he felt like he had no choice but to push his body to the limit.

He remembered Arngeir saying how the Voice was used to storm city gates in the past.

"_**Fus ro.**_"

His shout wasn't enough to take the gate doors off their hinges but it was enough for them to slam open as if a fierce wind had taken them. The gate guards and the ones in the towers beyond them flew back from the force and push-the soldiers running after a dragonborn and Imperial soldier as if the war depended on it.

The crown was somehow still grasped within his hand, the sharp points cutting into his pale flesh.

The bridge was long. Too long. Just as how the White River below them was too wide. They were pinned, trapped on the ancient bridge. Hadvar stirred within his hold, coughing out blood.

"Run..." he whispered. "Forget about me."

Alodie couldn't even believe what this man was saying. The stormcloaks weren't even trying to shoot arrows at him now...too afraid they might kill their only hope for humanity. But...once he let go of Hadvar, they would kill him.

He did not like the Empire. Oh no, he despised them as much as the stormcloaks.

However, he hated this Civil War even more.

Taking another deep breath-the best sharpshooters were raising their arrows-he shouted _wuld_ once again and he couldn't take the pressure of the voice again. And they were halfway across the bridge.

A stormcloak went to hit him with the butt of his sword however Alodie was quick enough to use the Jagged Crown as a weapon. He hadn't even realized when the sharp dragon's teeth dug into the man's neck like a real dragon's maw.

The Crown came out with blood and he couldn't walk any further. He was doomed to be captured as he had thought.

Until he heard the horses.

Most of the men had been confused when twenty of the armies horses that had been encamped outside of Windhelm were screeching across the bridge. Most were trampled and many were confused but he was still able to hold onto Hadvar with a weak hand. Somehow.

He was quick to jump onto his horse in the confusion-the off-white one that Mjoll had found for him. He was surprised at how well it remembered him and threw Hadvar's body onto the back and half climbed on himself, steering the horse in the opposite direction of the mass confusion.

He caught the sight of blue and blond.

Where this mass of horses had come from-he had no idea. Most of the stormcloaks tried to get over the stampede but too many were lost. If Alodie had better ears over the neighing and screeching, he probably could have heard Ulfric's loud orders to climb the wall. The grey walls that surrounded them would be enough for the stormcloaks to at least shoot his horse down.

The wood elf stable master was having a fit. And once they could see the end of the bridge, another shout that wasn't his cleared the twenty horses that had caused the problem.

Ulfric had used the Voice again.

Had Ulfric's Voice really been that powerful? Some horses flew off the sides like forgotten bags of wheat, others ran inside the towers posted every so often beside the bridge. Some were confused and reared back only to be caught by a stormcloak.

Galmar was nowhere to be seen. Just Ulfric.

Alodie's horse had been startled and threw the fully injured Hadvar and half wounded Imperial off. The Crown flew out of his hand like a lost vigil and practically pounded onto the ground. Alodie rolled while Hadvar laid still...the shafts of the arrows broken.

"_What are you doing_?" Ulfric shouted, his voice almost as clean as the the one he had used before. He didn't know why he glanced back at the Crown. "_How could you do this_?"

He could almost hear the sound of betrayal within the Jarl's voice and for some reason he winced at the sound of it. He held his head-a bump would most likely form due to the abuse-and his leg had a large gaping wound once again. Hadvar was worse off of course.

They were beside the wall so he used it in order to stand again, the Crown in his right hand, bleeding.

He could swear that Ulfric could see the look in his eyes.

Two symbols. He had called him a _symbol_. And he wanted to use him just like the Empire had when he had been a spy. Always plotting, always scheming...and he had had _enough_ of it.

The shout from Ulfric ripped him off of his feet. He didn't know why or how. He had resisted him before, why not now? What was different inside the throne room than it had been now at the bridg-?

Just as how he hadn't realized himself grasping the Crown, he hadn't realized when Ulfric's shout ripped it out of his hand and tossed it down into the raging White River below. The rushing White waters had swallowed the ancient Crown like the maw of a dragon, and sank down into the murky depths.

And the Jagged Crown was lost forever.

* * *

**I've been on a writing spree! Heh, hope you guys have been enjoying this so far.**

**Oh, and Jekosiit is a Khajiit curse word meaning filth.**

_Hinode~Dawn_


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